


And it's a Downward Spiral From There

by Edible_Panties



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alien Abduction, Alternate Universe - No Sburb Session, Clown Cults, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Quadrant Confusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:01:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4022530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edible_Panties/pseuds/Edible_Panties
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One day, the whole world is going to acknowledge you as that one guy who finally made contact with aliens, but if you had known that getting drunk was going to lead up to abduction, a potential probing, and becoming the worst cult sacrifice  this side of the galaxy, you probably would have just stayed at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Enema a Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I taught my mum how to save a Word document today. It was the most time consuming thing I've ever done.
> 
> The update schedule is that there is no update schedule.

It maybe takes you a few moments of stewing in bemusement before you finally decide that there isn't a single conceivable reason as to how you've ended up balls deep in green shit. Save for your head, still somehow mercifully clad in your awesome shades, your entire body is saturated in this thick sea of nasty gunk, suspended in viscous, sticky slime that clings all invasive to your near naked body. It's the kind of sludge that crawls up all sorts of cracks and crevices that you'd really prefer not to think about and, okay, while it's not the most uncomfortable you've ever been, it's still pretty weird. You're the first to admit that you've had your fair share of rough, alcohol induced nights, but you like to think that you should have had at least some memory of stripping yourself down to your daisy print drawers and plunging ass first into lime green goop.

You suppose you can blame Rose for these circumstances, because she was the one who had been insistent on keeping your precious keys 'safe' in the bottomless black abyss she calls a handbag. Had she conceded that hanging them precariously out of your back pocket was both a good idea and as ironically cool as you made it out to be, then last night you wouldn't have had to curl up on the stairs of your apartment building, drunk to fuck and wishing that your bro would read your mind, descend from the heavens and unlock the fucking front door for you.

After leaving the club last night, you vaguely remember slumping on the back of John's shitty moped, because he's always the poor fool saddled with babysitting duty after a night of drunken shenanigans. Chances are that this is just a stupidly elaborate hoax drawn together for shits and giggles, and while you would usually appreciate the time and effort put into dragging your sweet, inebriated ass to fuck knows where, the budding hangover turning your head to mush disagrees. John had turned up his nose at the rainbow shit Roxy kept offering everyone last night, and while that was probably the right thing to do, it gave him ample time and cognitive function to appease his prankster's gambit at your innocent expense. You don't know where he procured a great big vat of slime, nor do you want to, but you figure that you've got to shimmy yourself out of it so you can proceed to kick his sorry rump straight back to Washington.

This mucus is heavy and weirdly warm around you, like someone has pissed in your bedsheets in the middle of the night, and you realise perhaps belatedly that you're practically floating in this shit. Your bare tootsies aren't touching the bottom of the container, and as far as you can tell, there is no harness keeping you afloat. You don't know how you're staying perfectly buoyant within the sludge, but you credit the matter to the thick nature of the gelatinous gloop and leave it at that. Whatever mucilaginous slop you're submerged in doesn't really matter, you figure with a barely concealed grimace, mainly because you really don't want to think about it too much. Thinking hurts, especially with the onset hangover rearing its ugly ass and shitting all over you.

With your hangover having a hardcore fiesta all up in your noddle, you just want to hunker down deeper into the ooze and sleep away the headache, but you figure that no matter what your thought process was last night, taking a nap in unfamiliar green sludge is probably not the greatest idea. Instead, you wriggle your limbs experimentally, and it's oddly easy to move your appendages in what should have been constricting goop. If you had the mind to, you could probably do pirouettes in this shit. You focus all of your grudging energy in swimming upwards, where you then struggle for purchase on the edge of your vat.

“This is exactly how I planned to spend my Sunday morning,” you say in the thin belief that somehow John might be listening to you. You hitch your elbow against the rim of your slime tub. “Seriously, bro. I've always dreamed of slipping all sensual like into Satan's puke pile. I really, really appreciate the sentiment, man. I'm falling over myself to thank you here.” Your grip on the lip is intermittent at best, but somehow, through the slippery slime soaking your hot bod, you manage to hoist yourself enough to belly slide your way out. The vat is huge and purple, ribbed for your pleasure, and looks disturbingly like a giant cocoon. It's made out of something you've never felt before, but gosh darn it if it isn't the dandiest thing you've ever had the pleasure to sweetly caress. It's like solid memory foam, only when you curiously smush your face into it, it doesn't fold into your shape.

The sides of your cocoon, while bumpy, are angled so that your belly slide down is literally just that. If there wasn't a marching jamboree having a rave in your temples, you probably would have let out a cooing 'woo' as you made your descent, but alas, you are hungover to fuck and what should have been a pleasant slide down turns out to be a haphazard tumble. You even forget to stretch out your arms to break the fall, resulting in a fantastic rendition of your head crashing into the floor. It isn't quite as epic as the time Dirk lathered you up in dish soap and punted you down a slide when you were just a babe, but it's enough to rattle your tender bones. You let out a muted groan at the impact.

Out of the ooze, you feel a little more at ease, but there's still some straggling remnants of the gunk invasively lodged up where the sun don't shine. Taking part in a green gooey enema isn't exactly your idea of a good time, but your stomach hurts, your head is pounding, and you're pretty sure your limbs are no longer working, so you continue to lay prostrate on the cold floor. Your boxers stick to your thighs, riding right up into your fine rump like an awkward first time, though while you physically don't have it in you to try and unpick yourself back to comfort, you do manage to shake your ass in a frankly sad attempt at alleviating yourself. It, of course, doesn't work, and you're torn between angling for some pity on Pesterchum and puking up the rainbow.

Face down, your shades skewed clumsily against your head, you blindly reach out in search for your phone. “Well shit,” you mutter when all you feel is empty floor. Your phone, your lifeline, your precious salvation, is still uselessly tucked away in the seat of your jeans, and fuck knows where they had absconded to in the night. You're like ninety percent sure you were still wearing them when you dared to sleep atop of the stairs to your apartment, but since John isn't really in the habit of pulling off your clothes, even for a prank, you can't be certain. It's entirely plausible that upon nesting on the stairs, you had stripped down to treat your neighbours to your too-pale chicken legs.

You look up, letting your shades fall back down to your nose, and take a brief glance around to familiarise yourself with your environment. Maybe it's the imposing walls surrounding you, or even the perpetual low growl that thrums over the pulsing throb in your head, but something tells you that if this isn't one of John's stupid pranks, then you done gone fucked up big time. There are strange characters lining the outside of your pod, coupled with a few drawings of what you are pretty sure are clowns. They look positively mirthful, if a little homicidal, what with the fancy depictions of horned heads skewered on pinwheels. Okay, that's kind of ominous, so you turn your head instead to the oozing bleak walls that are leaking out the same slime you had been dumped in. Embedded within is a single window, blocked up by four thick bars. Again, ominous as fuck.

A door screams your hallelujahs, but it's pretty menacing for something that's supposed to be your deliverance from incarceration. It's huge and purplish, with four penitentiary bars squared away into the top half, and though there's an inviting wrought iron door handle, you figure that it's just for show. There's a racy looking keyhole centred in the iron frame, and you eye it wistfully for a full minute before dropping your head again.

“Too early for this shit, yo,” you sigh into the floor as you will your arms to move. It's frankly embarrassing how hard it is to pull yourself up to your bare feet, and you shake like a delicate Bambi, feeble in your skin as your legs threaten to buckle beneath you. For a long, deliberative moment, you ponder the merits of curling up into a ball of slimy, hungover regret, because that seems far more appealing than facing whatever this was head on, but you quickly decide that it's probably more productive to actually figure out where the fuck you are and, more importantly, why the fuck you were nearly naked in a tub of goo.

You're almost certain now that John doesn't have the resources to physically imprison you (and if he did, then you've seriously misjudged him as a person) and while it's an extravagant enough capture for Dirk to be the mastermind behind it, there seems to be a distinct lack of puppets involved for that to conceivably be the case. You'd already be drenched in smutty, colourful proboscis if Dirk were connected to it, so that just left legit abduction by strangers. By god, that's embarrassing. You don't want to be some kid on the back of a milk carton, because no doubt Dirk would use your most failed duck face selfie. That's not how you want to be remembered.

You wriggle your toes to regain feeling and when satisfied, you grope around your torso just in case some dick saw fit to steal a kidney or two while you were snoozing away. Apart from the Mariachi band playing acoustic dubstep in your head and the warning gurgle in your stomach that's reminding you that alcohol is bad, you feel pretty damn healthy. The only suspicious scars on your person are the ones taken in the heat of intense, awesome, and often fucking painful strifing with your big bro.

Kidneys assured, you fold your arms over your slippery chest just as your situation decides to finally dawn on you with a sudden snap of unbridled clarity. You're in a probably locked room, a dubious fucking cell, all slimed up like the business end of a promiscuous toy, and the only thing keeping you from being bare balls naked is the too-small novelty underwear Roxy had given you three Christmases ago. It takes you two long strides to the metal barred window and a second of internal screaming for you to fully accept your outlandish fate.

Your name is Dave Strider, and you think that you might still be drunk.

  
tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: Dave.  
TT: You left your keys in my purse.  
TT: Are you okay?  
TT: Dirk says that you didn't come home last night.  
TT: If you're in the drunk tank, rest assured that I will not be paying bail this time. Use your one phone call on John. I'm sure he'll be more than happy to drag you out of what you so eloquently call 'the single threat to your sweet anal virginity.'  
TT: On the other hand, if you managed to avoid getting literally fucked over by the police (again) and have just fallen asleep in the dumpster behind your apartment complex (again), then stop ignoring your phone and respond to me. It's getting worrying.  
TT: Call me when you're conscious.

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TG: HoNk :o)


	2. Holy Hangover, Troll Batman!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to the woman who pushed in front of me at the shop today.

You've never really been much of a astronomer. Save for vacant dabbles in your own astronomical version of online stardom, you've always figured the topic to be all kinds of hokum. It's something you'd take a fleeting glance at, hum in faux interest before fast balling it straight to Jade. She's all over that shit like mice on cheese: star gazing, pointing out constellations and generally getting all exited over burnt out dots flitting about the sky. You don't understand the appeal, so you've never taken the time to sit your ass down, put on your thinking shades, and learn the fuck out of the things that twinkle overhead. Despite your underwhelming knowledge though, you're still pretty certain that the moon is not supposed to be pink

But the moon is fucking pink.

You suppose that it could be a trick of the light, some misaligned beam bouncing obnoxiously off your shades to make the big cheese in the sky look like it tumbled straight from the feminine hygiene section of Walmart, but even when you tip your glasses to get a tint-free gander, it's still offensively pink. It's the kind of bright as fuck magenta that Barbie's Malibu Dream House is drenched in, gleaming in the low light outside like it's two seconds away from putting on a Broadway show. It hangs flamboyantly in the oddly gradient sky, too bright and too pink against the purple backdrop, but its appearance doesn't really concern you all that much, because the second moon is fucking green.

One strangely hued moon chilling idle out of the window is something you can handle with a solemn nod of your head and a semi-understanding thumbs up, because at least then you can pretend that it's a total natural occurrence. Two moons is impossible, some knock-off Star Trek shit playing on cable channels at two in the morning, but you can't physically disprove what you're seeing. They're on opposite ends of the sky, limping away from each other as dawn emerges over the unfamiliar grey horizon, and for once in your life you have literally no words. Your mind is made of static, and there are two moons just strolling in the sky like they belong there.

A heavy clang breaks you from your speechless reverie, and you think that you're going to puke up colourful spectrum of liquor you guzzled last night as you hear the door unbolt behind you. You whirl around fast enough to nearly give yourself whiplash, but no matter how hungover to fuck you are, your reflexes will always be fast enough to shoot up and stop your shades from flinging off your face. The door creaks as if it were made up of haphazardly strewn together sound effects, and if you weren't so suspicious over the sudden turn of events, then you probably would have recognised the misplaced tootle of a horn mixed in with the ominous groan of iron. 

Your first instinct is to run like the pigs are on your tail, but your inner common sense, usually neglected in favour of nursing sweet impulse, takes a 2x4 to your already messed up head and reminds you that there's only one exit; an exit that's being used by potential homicidal or sexual deviant nerds. You don't think you're physically capable of running anyway, so it'd probably be more like a listless amble rather than flashstepping the fuck to freedom. Any escape attempt would likely go intercepted, and while the slime makes an awesome lubricant to avoid bodily capture, you're not exactly in the mood to be grappled to floor in your underwear. Instead, you lean as nonchalantly as you possibly can against the wall. 

In a perfect world, you'd take your captivity seriously, but the crackpots shuffling into the room make quite the curious entrance, and you can't exactly find the appropriate reaction. There's two of them, both equally mismatched in height, expression, and will to live, and if they had been talking prior to their entry, they're silent enough now. The shorter of the two, coming below his companion's shoulder, is breathing hard through his nose in belligerence, and you can only guess that this is an innate kind of aggression when the taller one doesn't acknowledge it. They're staring at you and your hunky frame like you're a piece of erotic art hung in the Sistine Chapel, and you would have said something if you weren't already so preoccupied with their actual characteristics. 

Their skin is grey. Not much to say there. It's fucking grey. Not even the kind of grey you'd go if you were sick, or if you were, you know, dead. They're the kind of legitimate grey that could feature on the front of a certain erotic book, the one Rose hates because it's not even _good_ smut (take that, middle-aged fetish porn.) You want to call it body paint, but it looks uncomfortably real, especially when covered by obvious white make-up smeared together on their faces in clown inspired designs. You'd offer your ironic congratulations on the creepy as fuck greasepaint, but the smaller of the two looks like he's gearing up to physically lance you, while the other seems about two seconds away from bending down and literally chewing your glasses right off your face.

It's the horns that creep you out the most, and by the way shorty's eyes continuously flick up to your thankfully hornless head, he's just as equally perturbed by the lack of cartilage sticking out of your hair. They protrude like candy corn from their craniums, and you can't see a single seam with their respective nests of hair. The orange contrasts wildly with the grey of their skin, and they seem to be appropriately sized for each of their respective heights. Short and hostile has tiny nubs that, okay, you kind of want to poke, whereas tall and gangly has great big pointed ram antlers that look like they can skewer you like chicken with a single friendly headbutt. It's raw as fuck.

“What's up, my motherfuckin' peachy brother?” the tall one croons in a whimsical timbre, and your neck actually cracks a little as you try to look up at him. His low voice is disturbingly gentle, like he's on a perpetual high, and it's as if he's looking straight through you. Though he just spoke, he's clearly in a colourful world of his own, a world kitted out with flashing neon lights, a piñata stuffed full of narcotics and reggae music blasting in the background. There's a distracted, lazy smile on his face, framed by pointed teeth you think would be better suited in a b-rated horror flick, but he doesn't seem to mean you any harm. You're pretty confident in your ability to break out the fisticuffs when needed, but even though this lanky fucker looks like he couldn't hurt a fly without first accidentally punching himself in the maw, the freakishly large juggling pin he's dragging behind him looks pretty fucking menacing. 

You don't know if your head is throbbing because of the hangover, or because you don't know what the in the heck is going on, but you lift your arm in a stoic wave anyway. “'Sup,” you say, and this is probably no way to greet your potential kidnapper.

The giant brightens in a deliriously dull manner, and he turns to address the angry short one. “I told you, best friend,” he smiles, falling to lean heavily against him. His huge frame dwarfs the tiny nubby one, but it seems to be an unintentional, drugged up attempt at contact. He's shrugged off and he stands all gangly limbs and toothy smiles in the doorway. “It's all motherfucking miracles up in this place. I told you it talks.”

Nubby sneers and eyes you. “Just because it made a single noise of something that could be mistaken for a greeting doesn't mean it has any semblance of intelligence,” he gripes, and wow, that is so not a decimal level your hangover needs right now. “There's no way any sentient being with a thinkpan capable of real, independent thought would be found curled up asleep outside of it's hive in a puddle of its own drool. We've obviously fucked up and snatched away some kind of faulty subspecies. Look at it, it's way too white to be a real human.”

His voice crashes like a brass wave of broken cymbals slamming together out of unison, and it's far too loud for your poor, tender head to handle right now. You kind of want to just reach forward, press your slimy finger to his dark lips and shoosh him until he's confused into silence, but considering that this creature a) is probably one your sexually deprived abductors, and b) has teeth like a fucking Animal Planet predator, you decide that doing that would not be your most defining moment. You settle for watching at him blankly behind your shades, trying to stare him out while at the same time examining him. Unlike the tall one, who is all thin angles and sharp edges, Nubby's facial features are rounded to the point of where you want to ironically pinch his cheeks like an overbearing Aunt and ask him what he wants for Christmas. You don't, of course, because that'd probably result in your getting your fingers bitten off. He returns your stoic stare with a cautionary one of his own, but that doesn't matter because you think you just got insulted.

“Let's back this railroad up a bit,” you say. “You want to talk subspecies? Bro, I am all over that shit. I'm like the numen of the Neanderthals, the messiah of mutants. We roll on through the town on our pimp scooters, waving our subspecies flags and the people of the world are all like, shit, is that him? They fall prostrate at my feet, puking up glitter and lighting up bonfires as I just nod, because there are no words needed here, not in this sacred place. A plethora of fucking fireworks light up the sky as I lay down my sweet head against the stairs to my apartment and tenderly go to sleep. That wasn't drool, my small nubby friend, that was nectar of the gods.”

Rose has always warned you that one day your lack of a verbal filter is going to get you into trouble. You think the hangover makes it worse.

Nubby stiffens at something you've said and turns back to the tall one. “Okay, so maybe it talks,” he amends, “but can you honestly say that that blithering string of jumbled shit made a single lick of fucking sense? Because I can't. As far as I'm concerned, that one of the most – no, that was _the_ most incomprehensible slither of sputum I've ever had the misfortune to listen to.”

The lanky clown doesn't seem to be listening. He doesn't seem to notice anything really. He has a wavering focus on something just over your shoulder, but you don't mention it. “I'm Gamzee,” he drawls before gesturing vaguely towards the short one, “and this is my best motherfuckin' palebro in the whole of space.”

You repeat the foreign name in your head in lieu of saying it out loud, and you silently decide that it's an odd thing to name your tender infant. Like, what sort of parental figure cradled their grey, horned, teeth-ridden newborn creature, nodded to themselves in contemplative thought, and decided that Gamzee was something that wasn't going to get him beaten up and spat on in the playground after school? 

“I have a name too, shitsponge!” 

“Relax, my tiny bro, get your chill on. I'm not about to up and leave you out of this wicked bonding jam.” You're pretty sure this is not a bonding jam, but this guy is kind of hilarious, so you let it slide. He puts a heavy hand on Nubby's shoulder and smiles widely in your general direction. “For serious, this little ball of motherfucking rage is my straight up miracle bro, Karkat.”

You can't help but picture little Karkat getting beaten up in the playground along with Gamzee. “The introduction is appreciated. I've always want to know the names of my kidnappers,” you shrug. “I don't think you're supposed to tell me your names though. Doesn't that, like, go against kidnapping code or something? I mean, aren't you supposed to, I don't know, keep me locked up all lonely and shit until you've had your way with me? Where's my creepy basement? Where's my Stockholm syndrome? I gotta say, man, I'm kind of disappointed here. I want my full kidnapee experience.”

Gamzee blinks, like he's trying to wrap his head around the swivelling shit you're spouting, and Karkat sneers. “You've been abducted by aliens, you miserable pink thing, not kidnapped,” he corrects, pointing at you. “You'd think you'd realise that because this is so far from being anything like your shitty wet planet, that it's actually painful.”

You have so many questions. “Cool.”

“Cool.” For a blissful, beautiful moment, Karkat's boorish voice dips to a more reasonable volume, but it's a short-lived victory. “That makes no sense!” he explodes, and your headache spikes. “What kind of fucked up genetic defect occurred to make you so irrevocably dense? Or is that just a human thing?! I've literally just told you that we're aliens, and you think that's _cool?_ We straight up plucked your comatose, dribbling lump of straggling flesh straight from the stairs of your bizarre hive as your human lusus slept.” He throws up his hands, accidentally slapping Gamzee in the face. Gamzee rolls with it. “We've done reams amount of research on your shitty planet, and I'm absolutely certain that meeting aliens is supposed to be pretty fucking high up on the shock scale. You've actually been abducted from your awfully polluted stink hole of a planet by me and some glorified, jumped up juggalos, and that's fucking _cool?”_

Gamzee lowers Karkat's hands, and has got to be the chillest motherfucker you have ever met. “Whoa now, my choleric lil' buddy,” he hums, “look around and smell the motherfuckin' miracles. We just bitchtits lucked out when getting our select on, and somehow all up and picked a chill human. Now ain't that just a grand all wicked opportunity.”

Karkat rubs his cheek, smearing his clown make-up a little, and he glares up at Gamzee for a long moment before turning back to you. You are way too hungover for this. “Do you even have the slightest idea as to why we've abducted you?”

“If shitty sci-fi has taught me anything, it's that when you meet an alien, you've gotta make sure the chastity belt is fastened tight. I'm talking triple deadlocked, throw away the key here,” you say. “What I don't understand is the slime bath. You lubing me up for some alien probing fun times? 'Cause I've gotta tell you, man, I am really not okay with that.” You raise your finger and waggle it ironically. “I don't know what no means on your planet, but on mine, no means I really don't want either of you sticking anything up metal and phallic up my supple back passage, alright?”

You're delighted by the way Karkat's face contorts into a fermenting, disgusted grimace, and you give yourself a mental high-five. “What the actual fuck?” he yells. “Yes, human, I really want to stick some fucked up probing machine up your fantastically flat human anus. That's my purpose. That's what I clearly live for. I mean, what else am I, an alien, supposed to do with humans? Clearly we can't abduct you for anything other than non-consensual ass probing, because that would be just plain fucking weird.”

“Well if you're so insistent on sticking something up there, you might as well call me by name.” Surely, there's a more appropriate way of talking to the supposed aliens that spirited you away from your bed of stairs, but you didn't get the memo. “Dave Strider. I charge extra for butt stuff.”

“What? So now I have to _pay_ to anal probe you?!” splutters Karkat. “What the fuck sort of human capitalistic shit is this?”

“Hey man, them's the breaks. It's how we do things on my planet,” you tell him. “Ask any human. We charge for all that sexy shit, you know. It's practically American culture. Thanks Obama.”

He frowns. “What is an Obama and why are you thanking it?”

A part of you, the often ignored part of you that sounds suspiciously like Rose when she's feeling particularly therapeutic, warns you not to antagonise the alien with the razor teeth, but now that you've begun, you aren't likely to stop. There goes that non-existent verbal filter again. “Obama is our supreme overlord,” you say matter-of-factly. “Every few weeks we supply offerings in the form of poultry sacrifice. I ain't a big fan of killing chickens, but that's the way the cookie crumbles. I've been kind of fucking up my responsibilities to the great nubile overlord recently, so maybe that's why he let me get all abducted and shit. Fetch me a chicken, I'll go ahead and sacrifice it, you let me hightail it into the nether, and we'll call it square, okay?”

Gamzee looks just as mirthful as the homicidal clowns decorating your slime pod, and you're vaguely surprised that he's actually been listening. “Now that all seems pretty legit, my pink, tender unihorn,” he shrugs, “but I'm sure as shit not gonna let you go. We've only just got this motherfuckin' tits party going, and now that you're apart of this troll juggalo posse, thing's are gonna get a lot more prophetical up in this shit. Ain't it beautiful how things turn out in life. Motherfuckin' miracles, yo.”

“I'll motherfucking miracle your face if you don't shut the fuck up,” Karkat growls, but his focus is entirely on you. He keeps glancing down at your torso, like he's offended by your perky nipples and the sensual dip of your naval. “Is this pink squishy bitch supposed to be naked?”

“Nah, man, we up and took his clothes before slipping him nice and easy into the recuperacoon,” Gamzee replied as if it wasn't a totally fucking creepy thing to do. “Thought we'd make him all comfy and shit, 'cause getting your clothes all soaked in sopor ain't exactly the most magical way to wake the fuck up.” He perks up and stands a little straighter, and now his huge horns are scraping the door frame. “Whoa, I almost fucking forgot, man. I found the most motherfucking magical piece of...I don't even fucking know, it's like...so...beautiful.”

When he reaches into his pockets, he lets out the most peculiar noise, a sound so alien compared to the girlish shrieks of surprise Jade or John were capable of. It's a dull hybrid between the thick purr of a lion and a growl, mixed in with an intoned splutter of hasty syllables that kind of resemble the words: 'what the fuuaauu?' You have to admit, though, the honk that caused his shock was pretty fucking terrifying. It seemed to come from nowhere, sounding off all echoey and loud in the depths of his trousers and startling Karkat into stumbling backwards into the door.

“Why in the flying fuck do you even have that in your pocket?” he seethes, gripping his chest and staring at his supposed best friend like he had up and taken a shit all over the floor. 

Gamzee shrugs and draws out a fucking bicycle horn. Just straight up pulls it from his britches. “Fuck, I don't know. I haven't got round to getting my remember on,” he drawls. He passes the horn to Karkat so he can once again fumble in his endless pockets. “Get your motherfuckin' squeeze up on in this shit, best bro.”

“I struggle to find anyone I despise more than you and your fucking horns.”

You'd swear on your beloved collection of bottled road-kill that an actual chorus of glorious gospel singers rose up from the pits of hell to set the scene as Gamzee pulls your beautiful, sweet phone from the chasm of his trousers. It dangles between his long fingers, blissfully unharmed from whatever cruel, cruel torments it has no doubt endured in your forced absence. There are full on doki doki sparkles drenching that beautiful slice of Apple tech. It's a shoujo anime in the making, and if you were any less of a Strider, you would have swooned straight down to the fucking floor as soon as it reared its majestic LED screen, foaming at the mouth and writhing about until Gamzee gets the idea and tosses it onto your procumbent, twitching body. 

“It's kind of like an extra portable husktop or something. Like, what the fuck? It's beautiful. It's a motherfuckin' miracle.” Gamzee is currently caressing your phone, eyes wide and fingers dragging down the touchscreen. “Look at all the colours.”

Karkat isn't too proud to force the phone down to his eye level, and you've never felt more maternal over a inanimate object as he jabs his finger against the screen. “It's a piece of shit,” he decides. You want to gasp in offence. “Where did you even get this?”

“It went and slipped all inviting like out of his motherfuckin' pantaloons when I stripped him down,” shrugs Gamzee, still watching the screen. “Tiny little husktop, right, palebro?” 

You watch in stoic, slow motion dismay as Karkat slaps your precious phone straight from Gamzee's clumsy hands, and there's an urge there to throw yourself down to the floor and melodramatically weep by its possibly broken little corpse. Gamzee morosely watches the tragic descent too, but he doesn't understand the tender love you've showered your sweet, sweet phone since you upgraded two months ago. That shit be fragile, and you swear to god that if you have to call up your phone provider once again to rap about a cracked screen, tables will be flipped. 

Gamzee gets over it quickly but you clutch your chest mournfully up until the moment where the lanky motherfucker just straight up poofs some blue sugary shit right in your face. “Just gonna up and welcome you to the cult now, lil' human pink thing,” he says, lifting his arm in the strangest offering of a fist bump you have ever witnessed. 

The blue powder is stuck to your shades and to your face, your stomach is griping for relief, and there are two moons traipsing all nonchalantly through the sky. You go ahead and fist bump your abductor. 

  
turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] 

TG: probably wont be home for dinner cause wouldnt you know it ive gone and been abducted by aliens  
EB: sounds exciting. can I come too?  
TG: nah man these horny creatures can only afford a grade premium strider ass  
TG: they were all up in my glorious shit staring at my man titties and pokin things theyre not supposed to poke  
TG: my iphone will never be the same  
EB: you know, if they could only afford premium strider ass, that makes the average egbert ass more expensive.  
EB: i suppose you always pay extra for quality though.  
EB: hehehe.  
TG: youre making me cry here man im delicate  
TG: like a lil flower fluttering all gentle like in the breeze  
TG: do you really want to be the guy who crushes my lil flower?  
TG: not cool  
EB: haha sorry, i'll make sure to be gentle with your delicate flower from now on.  
TG: thats all i ever wanted  
TG: but seriously bro i think i just joined a cult  
EB: i thought you were abducted by aliens?  
TG: yeah and thats why this is the fuck up to reign over all fuck ups  
TG: this fuck up is so monumental that we should give it a crown and a throne and declare it monarch of all fuck ups  
TG: but then the fuck up will fuck up being king fuck up and fall off its throne because its a gigantic fuck up  
EB: ok?  
TG: all the other lesser fuck ups will storm the fuck up castle and try to go all treason on my grand fuck ups ass  
TG: but then my fuck up will fuck up getting mutinied against and accidentally ascend into fucked up godhood  
TG: thats how big a fuck up i have achieved  
EB: sounds like a pretty big fuck up.  
TG: its a clown cult john im not even kidding  
TG: a fucked up alien clown cult involving powdery blue shit and huge basins of slime  
TG: they took my clothes  
EB: jeez, that sounds kind of pervy actually, maybe you should escape?  
TG: the thought never occurred to me im so enlightened thank you  
EB: haha, anyway it's good to know you're alive. rose and dirk were asking about you 'cause you somehow didn't make it home last night.  
EB: even though i literally drove you.   
TG: its because of the aliens  
EB: ok, because of the aliens.  
TG: im going to lie here in the fetal position for a while   
TG: maybe cry a little   
TG: later bro  
EG: bye! :)

turntechGodhead  [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB]


	3. Fun Times with Faygo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold, plot.

Without a bottle full of coloured electrolytes and a dosage of antacids being popped at suspiciously regular intervals, it's surprisingly hard to get over a hangover. You've been spoilt with the blissful idea of being able to slump down in your bed, texting your big bro to bring you some bacon, even though he'd never actually bring you bacon, and the one time he did, it turned out to be a literal grilled sock. You had looked him straight in the eye, because that was totally a thing Strider's were capable of even with the awesome shades, and stuck that grilled sock straight into your mouth. It was no succulent pig meat, that's for sure, and the joke ended up being on you because while it obviously proved your superiority, it also resulted in your puking up your hangover as Dirk watched on in silent delight. You like to think that you manage to retain some kind of class as your spewed up the entirety of your stomach contents, yet Dirk has never let you forget it.

After a rather fitful sleep curled up in the corner of your weird alien cell, using one arm as a pillow while the other hugged your stomach tight to alleviate the uncomfortable pressure your hangover offered, your headache has subsided into more of a dull hum. It's not ideal, but it's far more appealing than the ram-raid blowout you hosted when you roused to a sea of green goop. There's still a sneaky, lingering threat of vomit hunkered down in the back of your throat too, just waiting to up and make sweet, sweet love to your bare feet, but when you put things into perspective, you decide that a little puke is really not an immediate concern. Now that your unwanted hangover is actually bearable, you think that maybe you should try to finally do something about your impossible situation.

A quick glance towards the window reveals that it's daytime, and you wonder how long you've slept for. While you're not particularly well versed on alien days and nights, you're certain that you're initial introduction to the planet took place around the evening. That left the whole day wasted to a sporadic sleep in the corner of the room, like a chided puppy no longer allowed to sleep on the bed. To make matters worse, there's a brisk chill curling through the bars, making your nips hard enough to do some straight up weight lifting, and raising your balls so high up that you could very well be mistaken for a woman. Goosebumps line your flesh, and you find the strength to roll onto your back and rub some warmth into your arms. It seems utterly meaningless to ask your abductors for a blanket to keep you warm, or at the very least a poncho, so you figure that you're going to have to settle for some good old fashioned self-warmth until you can resolve your problem. 

You gather yourself up, and your whole body is aching with the intensity of a thousand squats. It's a bitter twinge you're very familiar with, as a night out with Roxy as your club guide often results in epic, record-breaking hangovers. Your sore body is just a testimony of how much glorious shit you and your big sis got up to last night, though you'd be lying if you said that you remember any of it. The after effects of slamming out magnificent moves on dance floor after dance floor always worked your body in a way that strifing couldn't, but somehow you manage to drag your feet towards the looming door of your cell.

As the only one of the two that seemed to be in some sober state of mind, Karkat had made darn sure that the hinged fucker was locked tight before he dragged the perpetually dazed Gamzee out, leaving you to theatrically mourn your now cracked phone. Your mind is still a little hazy, but you're pretty sure he gave you the one finger salute before slugging his friend out of the room, and you would have taken the time to be ironically offended if he hadn't just disfigured your poor baby. The door had slammed much harder than necessary, and you doubt that you're going to find some hidden anime-esque strength that'll allow you to force it open anytime soon, so after tugging twice on the fancy handle, you figure that attempting escape is essentially pointless. You see no benefit in enacting a breakout when you're nearly naked, hungry enough to eye the slime curiously, and now that you think about it, in dire need of a post-hangover tinkle.

“Could go for some Honey Nut Cheerios right about now,” you call to the air, and your voice feels hoarse and dry in your throat. The only thing you've consumed in the last twenty-four hours is the gallon of whatever alcohol Roxy kept putting in your hand and a stale cracker left lying on the coffee table in your apartment, mixed in beneath all the broken, possibly illegal swords, decrepit take-out containers, and a pair of old boxers that could have belonged to anyone. (You don't remember owning DBZ boxers, Dirk swears that his mass of anime nerd shit doesn't extend to his intimates, and Jake, often liable to being naked in the Strider household, insists he would never be so ungentlemanly as to leave his unmentionables strewn about so haphazardly, and if he did, it'd be in Dirk's ungodly room. You're pretty sure by now that the boxers don't belong to anyone, and just somehow materialised on your coffee table amongst the piles of shit you and Dirk are prone to collecting.) Water would be appreciated, you decide as you resist the urge to shuffle uncomfortably where you stand, but you doubt your bladder could physically take the extra fluid in your system without letting loose all over the floor.

The barred window in the door is low enough to press your forehead against, but there isn't much to see save for the occasional flicker of orange light and the odd ominous shadow looming in creepy looking corners. Your glasses clink against the metal, and you wonder if there's anybody near by. “This is my life now,” you say to yourself in grudging acceptance. “I'll set up shop in this room and grow old with my vat of sleeping slime. Could be love there, who knows. We'll thaw out the ol' retirement plan, break out the pension, we could have a full happy life together. It'll be like living in a cottage by the sea. Only instead of the sea, there's slime, and instead of a cottage, it's a literal alien sex dungeon. Same difference, probably.”

As expected, nothing responds to you and you're torn between groaning petulantly, and slamming your head repeatedly against the bars until the situation resolved itself. In a hopeless case such as the one you've found yourself in, both options are equally appealing, right up there with slotting yourself back into your corner and rocking away the bad thoughts, but standing like a naked board up against the door is just as exciting. 

“Would love something to take the taste of actual dry ass from my mouth,” you continue, rolling your face against the bars. “That'd be peachy.”

“What in the ever-loving fuck are you dribbling on about?” Karkat's voice suddenly descends upon you like an unexpected brick to face, and you draw yourself away from the door as you hear him furiously scrambling with the lock. You wonder how you didn't see him through the window, and decide that it's because he's just such a tiny nubbin.

Given his manikin size, you think that you can possibly take him in a tussle so long as you watch out for his teeth, but rare forethought makes you consider otherwise. Should you choose to square off against him in what could have been the most epic, and the first alien vs human strife ever to be recorded and actually win, chances are that you'd either get lost within the rest of the alien compound, or you'd get jumped from behind and likely beaten the fuck to death with that hugeass juggling pin you encountered yesterday. You don't know how many other aliens are clowning around, but you figure that you shouldn't risk it.

“Well if it isn't Captain Karcrunch coming all up in my shit,” you say before you can stop yourself, and the squawk of contempt he gives on the other side of the door almost makes you grin. “Couldn't keep away from this sweet piece of Strider tuckus? It's alright, bro, I get it, totally understand. I've just got that magnetic pull that keeps alien boys like you coming back for more, little stay cats all like yes, hello, I am here, please pass me a slice of that delicious man booty, thank you.”

You step aside when the door slams open, and Karkat barrels his way through, looking just as ridiculously harlequin as he did yesterday. There's a pile of what you hope are clothes held tight against his chest, topped off by frankly a bizarre pair of red and black clown shoes that you really want to don because they are the most ironically awesome pair of footwear you have ever seen, and a small pot of what looks to be paint. There are two orange plastic bottles pressed up under his arms too, poking out of his pits due to lack of extra limbs to hold them with, but once he's in the room, he lets them drop carelessly to the floor. 

“You really are incapable of shutting the fuck, aren't you?” he sneers, dropping the pile of clothes on top of the two orange bottles. He then proceeds to stand in the doorway, his arms crossed as if his tiny presence would some how deter you from leaving. Had you the mind to, you're pretty sure you can pick this guy up by his underarms and just move him out of your way. “Is that a trait shared by all humans, or are you the only shit stain like this?”

“Shouldn't you already know?” you hum, looking over the pile curiously. You want to rejoice when you see that it is in fact a heap of clothes beneath the big, beautiful shoes, just waiting for you to shimmy your ass into them, but before going for them, you instead pick up the coarse grey towel mixed in. You assume that it's for the dried slime fused to your skin, so as Karkat makes a grab for the paint, you begin to chisel away. “Didn't you like do reams of research on my planet?”

He glares up at you from where he was fumbling in the pile. “Wow, you caught me red-handed,” he says. “We did, in fact, next to no research on your planet because this ludicrous organisation is actually a huge ball of congealed shit. The only reams of research they actually bothered to do was watch a shitty show called The X-Files, which for the record is such a wholly unrealistic take on the whole alien abduction movement that I'm actually offended.”

You watch him suspiciously as he tries to open the pot of paint before turning turning your attention onto the orange plastic bottles. “Faygo,” you read, and if that isn't the darnedest thing you've ever seen on an alien planet. “This is fucking orange Faygo. Bro will be all over this shit.”

Karkat frowns at your confusion. “I assume that even underdeveloped lumps of peach meat need some kind of sustenance to keep them alive, but I wasn't sure if your human digestive system could handle any of our troll food.” He's doubled over the pot of paint, struggling with the lid like it was glued on, but he manages to nod towards the bottles of Faygo. “That's the only swill the terrible clown had lying around.”

“Aren't you a clown too?” you say, cracking open the bottle. The way it had been manhandled makes it more of a carbonated explosion than a soothing hiss, and orange spatters you and your clown captor, but you manage to play it off as intentional as you chug as much as you can straight off the bat. Your bladder feels like its about to burst, but the soda is perhaps the most refreshing thing you've guzzled in a while. The bubbles pop in your throat, all fizzy and wild, and you let out a satisfying sigh. “I ask because of, you know, the clown make up and the awesome clown pants.”

“You think I like wearing this toxic shit?” he grunts, growling at the pot. “I'm only in this bulge licking place because of my moirail, who is clearly incapable of taking care of himself even in day to day life, never mind fucked up cult life, is nook deep in all of this clown excrement.” He twists on the lid harder. “Every day I need to smear this white gunk on my face and I say to myself: 'What the fuck, why have I joined a fucking juggalo cult, oh yes, it's because I've got a perpetually high, clown obsessed piece of bulge hobbling mop of a best friend, that's why I've become a reluctant follower of a religion so absurd that I can actually feel the idiocy slapping me in the face with each and every cult activity I am forced to take part in. Well done, Karkat, well fucking done, you've gone and flushed your life down the toilet because you can't leave your shitty supposed friend to the grabby claws of clowns.' Incidentally, I spit on past Karkat's decisions, because that guy is an asshole, and why _isn't this fucking jar opening?_ ”

He lets out something that can only be described as a primal roar as he channels his inner football player to outright slam the jar like a touchdown against the floor, and there's nothing you can do other than stand there wordlessly. He kicks the glass around, smearing speckles of white paint all up his stripy clown pants and along his shoes, and you tactfully step out of the firing zone. 

“That's rough,” you say, once he finishes his tantrum. 

“Thank you!” he exclaims, flinging his arms towards you in a wild gesture. “At least _someone_ appreciates the lengths I go to to get this giant greasepainted monkey out of a fucking cult.” He throws one last kick to the glass, but misses and ends up booting the air instead. “Sit the fuck down, human, and stay still. Its my job to initiate you into this god forsaken band of mirthful morons, because apparently inductions are a thing now, which blows my thinkpan straight out of the fucking window. Did I get an initiation when I sold my values to this nonsensical club? No, the most I got was a juggling pin to the face, a high five, and a disappointed look from Maryam.”

You narrow your eyes and cap the Faygo. “I'm good,” you say slowly, setting the bottle down. “Consider me initiated. I'm all about the clown god, or whatever. Me and the juggalo Jehovah? We're tight, bro. When we get together, it's nothing but Calvin and Hobbes, Garfunkel and Oates, peanut butter and jelly.”

“Is your default setting always set to spewing shit? Shut the hell up,” Karkat barks, bending down to his mess to scoop up two fingers worth of paint up. “Take those ridiculous sunglasses off and let me turn you into a human juggalo.”

“You're not going anywhere near my face.” It would be a great time to back the fuck up as he approaches, but there's only wall behind you. “I'm sure you've got mad painting skills, and you're free to have a doodle on the wall. Might be nice to have some shitty art hung up in my jail cell. We could play tic-tac-toe. Whatever. You're not painting my face.”

“It's not going to kill you, you stupid human. I'm just going to dab at it a little.”

“Oh my god, no.”

He lunges at you, and there's not much you can do other than grab his fists and try to keep him at an arms length. Despite his stature, Karkat is surprisingly strong, and you're beginning to re-evaluate how effortless it would be for you to beat him in a fight. You're only just able to hold him back, because years of strifing with your bro has developed you to kick sufficient ass, but if you drop concentration for just a second, he'll no doubt fling himself at you to paint your glorious face. 

“Just let me do it, Strider!” he exclaims, smudging the paint up your forearms. “It'll only take a minute. After you look as stupid as I do, it'll be over. Just...fucking...stay....still!”

The following all-male Turkish mud wrestle in the paint is not exactly how you expected to spend the start of your day, but you suppose that with new planets come new morning rituals, and it's certainly one for the memory book. It's not often you find yourself rolling around on the floor with a nubby alien hell bent on painting your face, so while the situation is both unwelcome and perhaps one of the stranger things that has ever happened to you, it's actually kind of awesome. You're all long limbs and he's all teeth as you grapple each other to the floor, slamming into the spilt paint and the broken glass like your were diving into the ball pit at Chuck E Cheese. The spatter of white coating the floor smears the two of you, and the struggle really makes the whole point of refusal seem kind of redundant. 

You're maybe a little too under-dressed for such actives, and it's a fact that only comes to light when some of the glass pokes at waistband of your boxers. The rational part of you suggests to stop, but instead you release Karkat's wrists and lock your arms around his neck. 

“Okay, stop, stop, stop, stop!” he screeches finally when your headlock prowess proves too much for him. You're both slumped against the floor, and you're wrapped around him like a chokehold burrito, naked chicken-legs and all. There's blood streaming down your back, victim to the scattered glass, and he's slapping at your arms like a child crying uncle. “If you would just _listen_ for a moment, maybe I'll be able to fucking explain _why_ I need to paint your face.”

“I'm joining a cult,” you drawl, giving him an extra choke just to be safe. He squawks and begins to kick his legs too. “Should be fun, but I really don't see how the face paint is necessary. What's the worst that could happen?”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” he exclaims, pausing in his thrashing to presumably give you the dirtiest look without actually looking at you. “This isn't just some happy clown party where we all paint on funny faces and ride one wheel devices, this is a serious situation! You weren't chosen for nothing, you flaming piece of musclebeast phallus, you were abducted to be a nook sucking _sacrifice!_ Would you like me to repeat that for you in case your head is actually nothing but a dribble soaked sponge? Do you want me to spell it out, maybe? Or is that too much for your tiny human brain to comprehend?” He bites down once into your arm as if to illustrate his point, but you bareballs stone face through it. 

“Ow.”

“Sa-cri-fiiiiice,” he enunciates, scratching at your forearms. “Is this getting through at all, you wretched stain on the universe? Gamzee and his drugged up clown posse want to sacrifice you to their blithesome buffoon of a god, or whatever the fuck they worship, and I can do fuck all about it unless you fucking start _cooperating!_ ”

Your awesome chokehold slackens, and Karkat uses this as an opportunity to wriggle away from you and crawl to a safe zone before standing back up. “So, what you're saying is that I've fucked up so hard that I'm being groomed into a clown sacrifice?” you ask, sitting yourself up and rearranging your shades on your face. 

“That's exactly what I'm saying.”

“And you, the creepy alien that literally abducted me from my doorstep yesterday, wants to help me boogie my way out of this cult party?”

Karkat at least has the decency to look a little sheepish, but he covers it up well with his smudged glare. “Before you even think about dribbling on about how ridiculous this concept is, this is not a hand extended in friendship, but rather a mutually if fucked up beneficial offer of an alliance.” Amused, you cock your head and he folds his arms tight against his chest. “You don't want to die, and I don't want to be involved in what essentially is the murder of an annoying but albeit innocent inferior creature, so everybody's happy. You can thank me later when you've been returned to your shitty planet with your shameglobes still firmly lodged where they're supposed to be.”

“And why exactly do I need to get a face paint facial?”

“If you cooperate with these nook-munchers, play the part of the sopor riddled lout, then maybe you can buy yourself some time for me to figure out how to remove your pasty ass from my planet,” he says, sighing like you're a kid who's just scribbled all over the walls. “In case you didn't get it when you met the giant stoner, these clowns aren't exactly the most intelligent creatures around. If you buddy up to them, they're less likely to exsanguinate you straight away. This may come as a shock to you, but putting off your execution is a _good_ thing!” 

“Well fuck me gently with a feather, I didn't know that,” you say blankly. “I mean, golly gee, I've always thought that up and bleedin' myself in the bathtub was a good idea. Suppose you learn something new every day. Thank you, Karcarrot cake. You've opened up my eyes to new and wonderful things in life. My unworthy ass is truly blessed.”

He glowers at you in a way that's probably supposed to be menacing. “Are you going to continue to waste my time, or are you going to wear the fucking face paint?”

You stretch out your arms in defeat. “Just fuck me up.”

It takes a moment for Karkat to react, as he's watching suspiciously like he's expecting you to throw yourself to your feet and introduce your fist to his face. After he's assured himself of your sincerity, he approaches, and you watch him carefully. It's a mutual distrust, you realise, but you keep the Strider stoicism painted on your face, no matter how much you want to flinch when he reaches up to snatch your glasses from your nose. Your first instinct is to look away, because you've never really been all that big on your eye colour, but somehow you manage to keep unbelievably awkward eye contact. Jimmy Cliff plays in your mind as unshaded colours come into existence, brightening the orange of his nubby nub horns, but doing nothing to bring colour to his greyscale skin. His eyes are sharp and mustard yellow, like he's gone on a serious trip and is never come back, but the irises are so black that it's hard not to see yourself in them. 

Karkat is faltering, his lips upturned into an unsure sneer and his hands hovering near your face as he studies you the same way you're studying him. Your glasses are pinched between his fingers, and he looks like he actually wants to say something at a reasonable volume. Instead, he tosses them to the side and ignores your whine at the mistreatment. 

“Stay still, fuckwit,” he mutters, re-scooping some paint in his fingers. “Let's not make this weirder than it already is.”

  
turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering tentacleTherapist  [TT] 

TG: lets say hypothetically that ive been abducted by aliens  
TG: and that i woke up in nothing but my underwear in a tub of gelatinous metric fuck ton of jello  
TG: what would you be your reaction to that  
TT: Ah, John mentioned the alien situation.  
TT: I would immediately say that this abstract fantasy of yours is a clear subconscious aspiration to return to the comfort of the womb.  
TT: This gelatinous metric fuck ton of jell-o you've been supposedly submerged in serves as the placenta that once swaddled you.  
TT: As for the alien abduction from another world, well, that's almost a textbook representation of your innermost desire for our estranged mother to come back home and whisk you away to whatever hole she managed to fall into after quite her spectacular abandonment.  
TG: of course you would think that why did i even ask  
TT: Somehow you always pull out my inner Freudian.  
TT: My second reaction would be that you've drunk too much.  
TT: How are you?  
TG: well im not hungover anymore so thats a big plus  
TG: also im pretty sure theyre not gonna probe me so thats another plus  
TG: oh yeah theyre planning on sacrificing me to their great and bountiful clown god  
TG: thats put a bit of a downer on the situation  
TG: otherwise im having a whale of a time  
TG: id send you a postcard but you know im literally on another planet right now  
TT: I guess I'll just settle for a souvenir.  
TG: done  
TG: ill look for a snow globe or something while im here  
TG: maybe a fridge magnet  
TG: better yet a kaleidoscope  
TG: one of these clowns is stoned as fuck I bet hed have a kaleidoscope stashed away somewhere  
TT: I'm on the edge of my seat awaiting your return from...Mexico?  
TG: alien planet  
TT: So Canada then.  
TT: In any case, I'm glad you're alright. Dirk was threatening to put your face on a milk carton. I'm sure it would have been hilarious, and I certainly would have kept one as a reminder of your drunken foolishness, but I'd rather not have to contact the police to help search for my brother.  
TG: i knew it the bastard  
TG: which selfie was he going to use?  
TG: it was the failed duckface one wasnt it  
TT: It was the failed duckface one.  
TG: swell  
TT: I have a class in an hour, so I'll leave you to your 'alien abduction'. Make sure you come and collect your keys when you can.  
TT: And I fully expect that kaleidoscope.

tentacleTherapist  [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead  [TG] 

TG: im sure the stoner clown will be happy to give me one  
TG: did you just leave me to my alien sacrificial fate?  
TG: wow rose  
TG: how sisterly of you

turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering tentacleTherapist  [TT] 


	4. Kabuki Princess Desu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot about this. I also forgot how to write.

Face painting takes a level of finesse that Karkat clearly doesn't possess. With a decidedly unsettling amount of vigour, he flings himself into his work like a grudging artist unappreciated in his time, his shark teeth chewing thoughtfully into his lower lip and his eyebrows furrowed so hard that they're just about trying to embed themselves right on into his eyes. His fingers are too hot, but the paint is cold and harsh, and it smells way too much like drain cleaner to be safe . You're not entirely certain what he's going for here, as it's been a whole thirty minutes since he began smearing on the paint, and things are starting to get uncomfortable. Normally, you'd be kind of impressed by how he's managed to keep a solid squat for so long, but as it happens, you really need to take a piss.

The thought collapses upon you like an estranged uncle at a family reunion, and the second it shoves a drunken foot right on into your head, it's the only thing you can possibly think of. It's loud and it's daunting, and there's an unfamiliar sense of urgency straight up bitch-slapping you in the bladder, so you throw your hands down between your thighs to try and alleviate some of the pressure. It does little to help. A part of you just wants to solemnly accept your fate and let loose where you are, but you're pretty sure that you still have some of your dignity wrapped up nice in a bow somewhere. 

“Fun as this is,” you say, “I really need to go potty.” Karkat musters an indignant snort and steadies your face between his fingers. “I suppose an escort to the golden throne is out of the cards because of the whole cult prisoner thing. I mean, I can get behind the whole jailbird gig, but if I'm going to take a leak, I don't really want to pick a corner and unleash the beast, you get me?”

Between his perennial scowl, Karkat manages to pull out an expression of utter disgust. “You made me fuck it up,” he growls, jamming his finger back into the paint hard enough for the joints to click. “What part of 'stay still, fuckwit' is so hard to understand? Can you really not comprehend a simple, reasonable request, or is your thinkpan full of the same liquid shit you dribble out and call a conversation?” Baring his teeth in a manner that is quite possibly supposed to be menacing, though just looks petulant, he resumes his composition. “What do you expect me to do about it? The clowns aren't the kind of jumped up fuckers to plan this far ahead, you know. If you really can't control your own bodily functions like a fucking wiggler, then aim out of the window.”

“When my dick grows wings, I'll give it a go. In the meantime, just get me a funnel and a hose and I'll improvise.”

Karkat barks out a snort of a fake laugh, though in your unease you decide that he is truly humbled by your spectacular wit. It's remarkable how little you are able to focus on, but you take comfort in the fact that you are still one hilarious motherfucker. Not even a bladder teetering on the precipice of overflow can stifle your comedic genius, or at least that's what you tell yourself as you jiggle your knee to take your mind off things.

“Stop moving,” Karkat barks, and for a minute it's enough of a shout to drag your mind out of your bladder. His nose is scrunched up and he squeezes your cheeks hard, but while it helps keep you occupied, it does nothing to keep you even remotely steady. “I'm fucking up again. Don't blame me when you come out of this looking like you've been frolicking globe deep in lusus shit, because that's the way things are going if you don't stop twitching every nook-splitting second!”

You wonder how he's found so much face to paint. “You know, it's shit like this that's gonna make me leave you a bad Yelp review,” you mutter, searching for something on his face to distract you from your piss plight. Close up and without your shades, you have a better view of his angry, nubby face, and as you watch him you decide that it's better than stewing on your own bodily needs. You lock your focus on the dark circles lining his eyes, several shades darker than his cadaver-like skin, and you find yourself absently wondering how much sleep he's getting. Given your situation, you imagine that you don't look all that much better. Sleeping on the floor of a cell cold enough to turn your nips into knives isn't the greatest skin routine, and you fear for you complexion. It's possible that with your new lifestyle on an inherently unfamiliar planet you look significantly more fucked up than Karkat does. The thought is sobering as it is depressing.

It's not eye contact, not really, but when Karkat catches you staring, he begins to grumble to himself in barely concealed embarrassment. It's nothing that hasn't ever happened before. You have the kind of mutant fuck eyes that can bitch-slap any fucker in their tracks, and you've long learnt not to take it personally. Dirk is the only person thus far that can hold his own in a hands down, shades-off staring match against you, so you don't really expect anything from Karkat. Well, Rose can do it too, but she doesn't count because you're fairly certain that's she's a witch. 

With that said, you're still kind of taken aback by how endearing Karkat's reaction actually is. What you can only assume is a blush sears up his face like an off-coloured loading screen, and although it turns his skin a curious blend of red and grey that doesn't exactly sit well on his face, it's an oddly welcome sight. It doesn't just settle on his cheeks and ears like you see in the porn cartoons Dirk totally watches, but rather consumes his entire face beneath the smudged-beyond-repair paint, and by all means it shouldn't be as adorable as you think it is. You blame the situation itself, but there's something particularly magical about making an alien blush, even if it was because of your twin reasons for every insecurity you have. It's something you plan to put on your résumé.

His lips are pulled up into a toothy sneer as he tries to decide how to react to you, and at what you've come to understand to be rare silence, you waggle your eyebrows. “You're making this weird, douche-fuck,” he accuses, sharply turning your head to the side. “Stop making this weird. You're throwing me off my artistic momentum.”

“Artistic momentum,” you repeat. “Dude, entire community centres have been built in the time you've been painting my face. I think whatever artistic momentum you ever had has already developed Alzheimer's and left the station to Shady Oaks Retirement Home, where it's then stolen by the outright underhanded orderly.” The way his swipes his finger down your jaw feels weirdly good. “I'm pretty sure this is how I die, you know. I can see it now. 'Dave Strider: Cool kid and rap master extraordinaire, left for dead in the prime of his life after being worn down to the bone by angry alien.' That sounds kind of sexual actually. Are you just taking this whole sacrifice thing as an opportunity to touch me? I mean, I understand, look at me, but you've gotta read the signs, bro: 'Do not touch the masterpieces for longer than ten minutes.' You have no respect for true art.”

“You are easily the most egotistical fuckbag creature I have ever had the misfortune to abduct,” he says. “I question the idiots that actively choose to spend their time with you on a regular basis. That's just a bad case of life choices that I really don't want to join in on, but oh, here I am, actively choosing to sit here and save your pathetic excuse for a life. Who is the fucking pleb of a troll that's really sacrificing something here, Strider? Spoiler alert: it's me.”

Your nipples are especially cold and you've taken to trying to decide on which corner of the room will have the honour of being your toilet. “Oh yeah, you've got it bad, bro,” you say dryly. “Here I am having a knee-slapping good time all while you're over there suffering. You're like the last cookie in the jar that everyone was saving for everyone else, but now it's gone stale, so nobody's ever gonna eat that cookie. Everything in that cookie's life was leading up to getting snacked on by some hungry human, but now it can't fulfil its purpose and everything is meaningless, I understand. I'd hug you better if I wasn't so sure you'd bite me, but I'm glad we've established who has the bigger ordeal here. A real weight off my shoulders, I tell you.”

He snaps his teeth, but suddenly he's wiping his fingers on your slime towel, and you take that as a sign of completion. The paint is heavy and foreign on your face, like the time you and all three of your siblings had a girls' night at Roxy's place. She had pulled out a make-up box befitting of a stage play production, and you and Dirk had never looked so fabulous. Back then the smell had been a lot more flowery than whatever Windex based gunk Karkat had just smeared all over your face, and you're almost certain that it didn't itch as much.

Bless him, he looks so proud of himself, so you fish for your phone. In your earlier struggle, it had been flung across the room, and the memory of your tussle makes your back sting. You had managed to get most of the glass out before Karkat started painting, but you're pretty sure it's still bleeding. The chances of Karkat running off to fetch you a bandage are slim, but you've had worse injuries in worse places, so you think you'll live for now. There are more important things that need your attention, namely the camera on your phone.

What is presented before you is so ironically beautiful that you kind of want to weep a little. You've always been pale, it's a trait that runs in your family, but the slop of paint completely transforms you into something almost ghostly. It should have been something akin to the incredibly smudged but clearly clown inspired design on Karkat's face, but it seems that he's certainly taken a few artistic liberties when it comes to painting. Really, it's hard to believe that he didn't use the entire jar on your face with how much has been piled on, and you are amazed at how long it has taken to create such a glorious masterpiece. It oozes down your cheeks in too-thick clumps, though despite the caked on layers all over your face and neck, he has still somehow managed to miss the entirety of your chin. 

“Well,” you say blankly, smudging away a particularly offending blob from your lower lip, “it sure is something.”

Karkat stares at you. “You hate it.”

“It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen,” you say, pressing a hand to your chest as if his accusation offends you, “and I'm not just saying that because my face is the canvas. Shakespeare wrote actual sonnets on kabuki beauty like this and came up short, because this kind of allure far surpasses all those dank poems he made back when people were shitting out of their windows and salting their pork way too much. You're an artistic genius, really. This is your Mona Lisa, your Starry Night. Bro, I look at what you've done to my face, and I weep.”

“You fucking hate it!” he says again, only this time it's significantly loudly. “Fuck you, fuck your pretentious ideas of artistry, and fuck your teeny tiny, creatively challenged thinkpan. You couldn't even begin to appreciate real art if it turned around and wore your nook as a party hat, you uncultured dribbling beefgrub. You know what? I don't even care. It's not like I sat down and wasted an entire thirty minutes on this sopping piece of shit. That's a whole thirty minutes I could have spent, I don't know, not trying to save your feeble life from being further ostracised from the juggalo bulge sniffers, and subsequently murdered in a way so cruel that I'm beginning to think you deserve it!”

A glob of paint falls from your cheek and lands in your lap. “Karcrab,” you say, dramatically picking up your shades. “It's fucking awesome.”

“Lies,” he exclaims, throwing himself to his feet. “You're right! It _is_ terrible! I've taken every modicum of pigment in your already freakishly pale complexion, and just fucked it all up. I didn't realise that I could even fuck up this much, but there we fucking go. Whoop-di-doo everyone, Karkat has messed up again. Let's all gather around this particular pasty specimen and have a good laugh, because we don't know when he'll do it again. It will be a fucking miracle if they even see the slightest resemblance to the clown you were supposed to be, but hey, let's just hope they don't try to fucking spear you straight away.” You think he's maybe overreacting when he goes to kick the pile of shit he brought in earlier. “I even brought you some clothes to complete the ensemble. I would tell you to wear them to, you know, save your fucking life, but what do I know? I can't even paint a fucking clown face.”

“Well, you sure know how to treat a girl,” you drawl, slipping on your shades. The paint is still wet and it smears over your lenses, but you ignore that for now as you shimmy your way over to the discarded pile.

Either Karkat has no real concept of size, or you come across bigger than you seem, because when you hold up the ridiculously awesome clown pants, they are clearly at least four sizes too big for you. They're a sort of puke green with white stripes running vertically up each leg, and the material is much coarser than you expected. They're the kind of scratchy, blanket-type fuck you'd find in grandma's caravan when there's nothing else to warm your toes up at nap time, and you hate them as much as you love them. It's ironic 90's fashion all rolled up into one big pair of pantaloons, and unable to contain yourself, you immediately start to dress.

Boy howdy do you look amazing.

As much as you love your billowing clown pants, they fall right down your ass to your ankles, so you're forced to kick them aside and stay pretty and cold in just your daisy print boxers. It's disappointing, but at least the shirt is reasonable enough to be too small.

If the style is any indication, it's clearly something straight out of Karkat's closet, and when you tug the black little number over your head, you feel like you're channelling your inner goth. It's tight in the way Dirk likes to wear his tank tops, and it sticks to your torso like plastic wrap. You can admittedly see the appeal. The way it clings to your biceps and bunches around your waist because it just won't stay where you tug it makes you look and feel more ripped than you actually are, so suddenly Dirk's inclination towards too-small shirts makes a whole lot of sense. It's a whole new hot bod world, and if you had a full length mirror, you'd strike a pose. 

Instead, you flex your mad guns in Karkat's general direction, but he's too busy grumbling to himself and picking up shards of glass to notice. There's a symbol on his sweater that you've only just noticed because, you know, you were too busy being a victim of alien abduction, and it matches the one on your new t-shit. It looks like the number sixty-nine turned on its side, and somewhere your inner online thirteen year old is cheering at the discovery. 

“Party hard,” you mutter, rolling your shoulders as you sweep up the final touch to the ensemble. 

You have no words for the shoes. They're swashed in the type of majesty you keep in the original packaging and then store in a China cabinet to keep away from the kids, or something you'd hide beneath the porn under your bed during a sleepover, 'cause gosh darn it, they're just too precious to share with your nerd friends. The way they're deliberately big, the way they stretch out into a bulbous point, it oozes comedic genius. You love them.

You perform an obligatory spin. “How do I look?”

Karkat no longer looks proud of himself. “You look ridiculous,” he frowns. “You'll fit right in.”

The shoes fucking squeak when you point your toe to show off a leg. “They match my eyes,” you insist, batting your lashes behind your shades. Karkat follows the arch of your leg in what can only be disgust, as if he's been personally victimised by the paleness of you skin, before he finally looks up in an attempt to meet your gaze. 

“Now that you're finally sort of in something befitting of the halfwit chucklebeasts, sans those ridiculous flower shorts you're wearing, we can finally talk about something more pertinent to the perennial mess I have somehow lodged myself nook deep in, because apparently I'm just that kind of troll.”

It finally occurs to you that this is the second time he's refereed to himself as a troll. More concerned about more immediate matters, you hadn't given any thought as to what species your new nubby ally could possibly be. It's nice to know that when you're making a name for yourself on Oprah, you can accurately accuse your abductors without sounding completely delusional. 

Karkat is still talking. “So while you're just sat there with that fuck dumb expression on your pallid face, we need to surgically extract your head right out of your nook and start forming a plan, because if we don't have a plan, then what exactly is even the point of this entire endeavour?”

“Wait, wait,” you say, holding up both of you hands and drawing back your squeaking foot, “before I sit down and screw on my planning head, I've really got to stop you there, because I'm a minute away from decorating the floor with my actual piss, and I don't know about you, man, but I don't really think that's gonna make all my dinner guests happy.” You stare at him, kind of hoping he actually takes you seriously this time. “I really need to take a leak.”

“I don't know what to tell you, Strider. It's not like I can just unbolt the load gaper and drag it here to you, and if I take you there myself, I'm the one who will have to face the wrath of those insufferable clowns,” he snaps. “There's a perfectly good window for you to use.”

The idea of trying to aim out of the window is about as appealing as pissing your drawers. “I'll pass on that, thanks,” you say. “Look, I'm not asking you to bring me a, what did you call it, a load gaper? Whatever. I mean, a bucket will do.”

Something snaps. The odd blush returns to Karkat's face in full force, only this time it's a lot less endearing and lot more accusing. His expression scrunches up like he's been performing unnecessary fellatio to a lemon, and he flings his arms up so quickly that they catch you right in the jaw. You decide that you were caught of guard only because of the absolute ridiculousness of the situation, and you reel backwards at the impact. Karkat has started to splutter and blubber a string of something that sounds suspiciously like profanity, and now you really have no idea what's going on.

“What exactly are you implying, you perverted piece of watersporting shit?!” he screeches, slapping his hands to his face to stave of an embarrassment you don't understand. It further smears his already messed up make-up, so by this point his paint is possibly just as bad as your own. That kind of doesn't explain his melodramatic reaction.

You blink. “Did I just trigger you?”

He doesn't respond. He doesn't do much of anything really other than continue to make odd noises as he trips over himself in an attempt to leave the room. It's kind of hilarious, watching him scramble away from you as if you had just made sweet love to his childhood pet and forced him to watch, but you don't say anything as he stumbles out of your cell. He's followed by his jumbled, offended screams, and you make a mental note to find out exactly what you said to earn a reaction like that.

“Well, okay, but when the damn breaks, I'm taking you down with me,” you call to his retreating form. It's a gross sentiment that you're not entirely sure he heard, but you know that if Rose was there with you, it would have warranted one of her patented How Are We Twins? arched eyebrows and a sagely shake of her head.

As the door bolts behind him, Karkat shouts something that could have been a reply, and you're once again left alone in your cell with only your thoughts, your full bladder, and your beloved iPhone companion. It's too quiet after Karkat's outburst, and despite your best efforts at aiming at the window, you end up unleashing the beast in an empty bottle of Faygo. You decide that when you regale your friends with your adventures in space, you're going to leave this part out.

  
timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: I heard you joined a cult.  
TG: in light of recent events ive come to realise that clowns are far more disturbed than ive been led to believe  
TG: i mean you expect funky ass animal balloons and little cars and big honking red noses because you know what that's what makes up your image of a clown  
TG: ask a kid to draw a clown thats what theyd draw  
TG: they wouldnt draw a piece of choice rump being spirited away by a group of grey nerds with candycorn for skulls and teeth like the fucking maw of a great white shark  
TG: they also wouldnt draw this particular piece of choice rump being manhandled into wearing makeup and a shirt that just might be cutting off all the circulation in my good parts and a pair of huge but decidedly awesome clown pants so that we can all please the juggalo jehovah in one big happy strider sacrifice   
TG: im being fed nothing but faygo and i think i may have accidentally proposed something deviantly sexual to generic alien abductor #2  
TG: so yeah i joined a cult  
TG: come get me   
TT: Yeah, I don't think my truck can handle space flight.  
TT: You're wearing clown make-up right now?  
TG: ive gotta say im totally rocking this look  
TG: was a little unsure at first but its grown on me  
TG: you know like an std fungus grows up your ramshaft in a way you really dont want it to but hey youre stuck with it now so we might as well all get along  
TG: a true geisha of our time desu  
TT: Aren't you supposed to be a clown?   
TG: yeah but my bro karkite fucked up so now im either a geisha or a mime  
TG: mimes are creepy  
TG: like whats the point of them other than to creep on you in a heavily populated street only to ambush you at the next turning  
TG: all like hey there big boy im gonna be your mirror image for the day so shall we play a game of can you not punch me?  
TG: and i always want to punch him  
TG: so in lieu of becoming everything i loathe in life ive instead chosen to become a possibly racist depiction of a culture im relatively certain youve masturbated to at some point in your weebtrash life   
TT: You see it's shit like this that convince me not to let you get too sauced up with Roxy.  
TT: Unlike you, she can handle her booze a little better than kid at his second Bar Mitzvah because the first one went wrong when Uncle Mort aggressively lost his shit on the presents table.  
TG: youre never gonna get over that kids bar mitzvah are you?  
TT: And apropos of the weebtrash comment, fuck you.   
TT: Although if you're really wearing clown pants right now send a picture because that is absolutely fuckin' dope.  
TG: i would but as much as i hate to admit theyre gone now on account of how huge they were   
TG: devastating i know   
TT: You're not exactly filling me with confidence here, bro. I'm becoming less and less convinced of your alien abduction.  
TT: Because it was a completely plausible scenario in the first place.  
TG: now thats not very kawaii of you  
TG: here i was expecting our status as bosom buddies would garner me some sympathy for my plight  
TG: im practically on my deathbed here  
TG: walking down the green mile   
TG: sailing up ass crack creak without a paddle  
TG: and youre just gonna sit there and question my claims?   
TG: some mom you are  



	5. Castaway Didn't Die For This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere along the way I remembered that I was supposed to write things.

Though you're maybe a million miles away from your bed and under the constant threat of a surprise sacrifice, you still find the time to send obnoxious selfies to your twin sister. It's become something of a morning ritual for you, kind of like your very own version of marking the days on the wall. It gives you a sense of productivity where there is none, you suppose. Rose always responds in kind, smiling serenely and low-key insulting you in her captions. It's a decidedly welcome distraction. While you should probably be panicking about your impending doom as Karkat does, there has been literally fuck all to do in your cell. You've had more than enough time to worry or cry or scream, or whatever it is you're supposed to be doing in an unprecedented situation like this, but honestly? You're just bored. 

Going by your picture timeline, it's the forth day since your vulnerable ass was scooped up from your doorstep. The clowns are making you stew on your Faygo diet, and if it weren't for Karkat regularly barrelling his way in to announce your terrifying fate every other hour, you'd be certain that they've gone and forgotten all about you. He flounders into the cell every day, finding new and exciting things to yell about like it's all he's capable of. You'd think it to be a trait of his species if you hadn't already met Gamzee, and at this point it's just become a game to see how many buttons you can press before he storms the fuck out, all temper and flair. 

It's disgustingly adorable, and you're appropriately confused as to why you think that. 

Rather than dwell on the abrupt thought, you instead lethargically draw your phone towards you. You've been trying your best to conserve the shitty battery by turning it off whenever you're not actively Pestering someone, but all of your valiant efforts seemed only to have prolonged it by a few days. It's running dangerously low now, hours away from blinking out completely. It's only a matter of time, and you're not emotionally prepared. The thought is particularly unnerving. Though you're unlikely to ever admit it, without the constant chirp of Pesterchum keeping you a finger touch away from your friends and family, you'd be completely lost and completely alone. You suppose briefly that that's what makes your daily selfies so important, but that's a pile of deep ass shit you don't want to dive on into. You dismiss the thought. You'll never be alone when you've got your tinnitus to keep you company.

Pursing your lips as obnoxiously as you can, you snap a photo and quickly caption it before shooting it off to Rose. “Day Four: Legs are lookin' mighty find today haha I haven't eaten in three days.” As hilarious as you are, the sentiment lingers. Faygo can only sustain you for so long, and your sleeping slime is looking increasingly appetising as the days go by. The morning has brought about your first onset of hunger pains, and they're biting away in your stomach like angry children kicking the back of your seat on a plane. You know that you've not been taking your situation seriously, but when your belly starts to up and converse with you, you think that maybe it's time you begin your inevitable freak out.

It doesn't happen. As much as you want to throw yourself into a dramatic nervous episode, you can't dredge anything up. While you could blame the listless feeling that hunger has kindly given you, there's just something about being abducted by a group of alien clowns that doesn't tickle your fancy. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you're not entirely convinced that they're actually going to sacrifice you. These clowns are about as organised as disgruntled art students gearing up for their final piece, and simply aren't something you feel immediately threatened by. You think it's the make-up. You feel particularly dapper in your greasepaint, and rather than finding the whole thing as distressing as it probably should be, it still hasn't lost that comedic spark.

So you remain stuck in your hungry boredom.

It's a sad existence. Your days are spent wallowing in a bath of self pity, windmill flat on the floor as you make patterns out of the various stains on the ceiling. Being abducted by aliens promised an exciting adventure that hasn't been delivered, and you feel a little cheated. By all means, you don't want to go on an adventure, you never wanted to, but when opportunity presents, well, why not? None of the movies you've grudgingly watched with Jake and John ever played out with the hero almost wishing for the day of sacrifice to arrive, because at least then there would be something to do. For you, the most exciting thing to happen in the four days of captivity is the discovery that your discarded clown pants can be used as a sleeping bag.

Your phone buzzes on your stomach and you pull your head up expectantly at what can only be your sister's reply. Indeed, you're greeted with Rose smiling softly in her favourite chair, posing almost smugly with a cup of tea by her lips and her cat arched across her lap. “Don't have too much fun, dear brother,” the caption reads, “you'll ruin your figure.” There's an insult there, you can taste it, but you're feeling far too run down to ever consider searching for it. Instead, you switch off your phone and drop it heavily back down on your stomach. You feel a little better now that you've heard from her.

The sun is starting to strut its stuff across the sky when Karkat flings open the door to your cell, but you don't find yourself surprised. Though you've come to understand that trolls are nocturnal, he has taken to harassing you specifically during the daytime. You suppose it makes sense. If he chooses to go the super secret route to come all up in your grill, then at least it lowers the chances of the two of you getting caught conspiring with one another. Not that there that been much conspiring in the first place. His visits usually consist of him shouting himself into getting offended and then leaving without so much of a goodbye. 

Karkat's a hell of a character, you've come to realise. He's loud, he's boisterous, and he's really the only thing that's stopping you from hitting your face against your slime vat at the frustrating monotony that is now your life. The whole world is out to get him, or at least that's how he acts, and while at first it was a pain in your ass, it's become alarmingly endearing. You're not sure if it's a potential case of Stockholm Syndrome rearing up, and you're not sure if it's because he's kind of actively trying to save your hide from a possible case of bloodletting, but you're actually starting to like him. Go figure.

Curiously, today he's not wearing his ridiculous juggalo getup, and it occurs to you that it's the first time you've seen him looking so normal. His bunched up sweater remains the same, dwarfing his frame as it always has, but in the place of his awesome clown pants are just a simple pair of black jeans – or at least the alien equivalent of such things. The change in attire throws you, and you consider his bare face and improvement to the smear of grease he's been wearing every other time you've seen him. With no paint, no parachute clown pants, and not a single clown shoe in sight, you're feeling overdressed in comparison.

He bounces on his toes in a panic different from his usual ire. “Get up, get up, get up,” he ushers, poking his head out of the door and then drawing it back in. “Are you listening to me? Get the fuck up. Things are happening. Get up, get up!”

“Give me a minute,” you say, because you need it. The thought of moving makes your stomach groan in protest, so you pat it in an attempt to will yourself upright. On an empty stomach, you're not exactly inclined to partake in whatever Karkat has planned, but the way he circles you as if you were prey offers you no reprieve. 

“Holy shit, do you have anything resembling a fucking sense of urgency?” he exclaims, approaching you. As a rule, Karkat has always made a point not to touch you unless he has to, but now he wastes no time in reaching down to pull at your bicep. “Do I really have to remind you that I'm the idiot who took it upon himself to save your life? Because that's happening now. This is me saving you, so get the fuck up.”

He tugs you again and this time you allow him to pull you into a grudging sitting position. “Bro, chill,” you say, scratching at the flaking paint on your face. You're pretty certain by now that it's fused to your skin. “So you've found out how to book me a flight off this sanctuary for wayward clowns?”

Karkat's face drops. “No,” he admits, “but I've been far more concerned with the more immediate threat of your fucking murder. For some reason, I thought that the absolute butchery of your pink backside is a little more important that finding out how I can unabduct you. Forgive me, Dave, for not magically knowing how to get you back to your shit guzzling rock of a planet right this minute. I'll make sure to set my shameglobes in gear for the next time you're the blood offering to some make-believe moron so I can make this whole transition smoother for you. It's certainly not like I'm putting anything on the line myself here, no. What's the worst that could happen? Maybe a culling? Then again, maybe I deserve such a fate for not immediately figuring out how to shift your ridiculous face back to Earth.”

“My hero,” you drawl, taking your sweet time standing up. You use his shoulder to brace yourself, and he sneers at the contact. “So what's the plan then, sunshine? Frolic through the flowers to freedom?”

“Oh, so _now_ you want to hear my plan?” he bristles. “Well ta-fucking-da, this is it.” He flings his hands towards the open door and gestures wildly.

You stare at him. “What, so the plan is to literally just waltz away?” you say slowly, unsure. “All that talk you've been giving me about the importance of planning, and now it turns out you can't come up with anything better than taking a stroll in the park?”

Karkat is sneering at you, but the glare is drenched in a resignation that is well aware that his plan sucks actual ass. “These clowns are literally impossible to plan around,” he announces, throwing up his arms in defeat, “and _believe me_ I've tried! Do you know how difficult it is to carefully arrange an escape attempt when these fuck-nozzles have absolutely nothing resembling a schedule? When you think you're safe, suddenly they're popping up out of the assfuck end of nowhere to scare the fucking life out of you, and when you punch them, do you know what happens? They fucking honk. They fucking _honk_ , Dave. Do you understand how insane that is? Do you understand how fucking crazy this place is? Why don't you try to plan around a shit storm like that and get back to me. Oh, but don't take too long, because these assclowns did in fact have a big group meeting to discuss the best way to offer their skinny pink sacrifice to their lord, so good fucking luck with that.”

“Oh, wow.”

“Yeah.”

“You're such a drama llama,” you say after taking a blistering moment to let his tirade settle. “Okay, I'll bite. Let's say this plan of yours works, what then?

He hesitates before answering. “I don't know,” he says, and you start to doubt any faith you were starting to have. “Let's focus on getting you out of here first, okay? Is that alright with you, Dave? Or would you like to pull something out of your own wastechute and at least attempt a contribution to this whole endeavour? Don't worry, I'll wait.”

“I'm in your hands, bro,” you sigh, because you're really too tired to argue with him at this point.

Leadership assured, Karkat nods. “Right,” he says, puffing out his chest in inexplicable hauteur. “They're distracted for now, but we've got to go immediately.” He eyes you as if you're about to draw back and punch the confidence out of him. Then, he nods to himself decidedly. What he's decided, you can't really say, but you shrug off the matter as you tuck your dying phone into the waistband of your underwear. “There's no going back after this,” he continues over-dramatically, “so you've got to be ready.”

You push up your shades. “I was born ready.”

Karkat scoffs.

It's not much by way of space adventure, you decide as you lug yourself behind Karkat. The dark hallways fork off into several different veins, but he navigates with a sort of efficiency he hasn't shown you until now. With you lumbering behind him like a lost dog in a cattery, he actually seems competent, and you find yourself wondering if you've misjudged him as a rescuer. For once, he actually seems to know what he's doing, and you're comforted by the thought.

With Karkat suddenly qualified to lead your lost ass through the labyrinth of walls, you let yourself be disappointed by your ridiculously normal surroundings. After setting foot outside of your cell, you figured you'd be bowled over by some space age Star Trek shit, monochromatic surfaces with blinking LEDs, a fucking android or two spiralling out of control in the corner, or at least doors that go _swoosh_. A culture with the technology to abduct you straight from your doorstep has got to have some kind of fanciful tech that'd make your nerd friends wet themselves, but that's a dream immediately dashed by a quick glance around. The place smells the underside of your bro's boots, and looks like a claustrophobic version of the abandoned warehouse two blocks away from your apartment. It's as disappointing as it is sucky. 

Endless hallways that smell vaguely like fish soon lose their novelty, and you stride on ahead to fall into step with Karkat. “So,” you say, ignoring how he quickens his pace to reinstall himself as the leader, “creepy corridors, barely any lighting, the ever present feeling of doom lurking around every corner. Should I expect a dude in a clown mask to pop up out of nowhere? Should we hold hands?”

Distracted as you are, you almost crash right on into Karkat as he stills in the hallway, and it takes you a dense moment to realise why. Every nice thing you've been thinking in regards to him knowing what he's doing in life suddenly vanishes at the very appearance of Gamzee the jolly grey giant. He looms up ahead as an unstoppable object, blocking your path like an out of date RPG mini-boss, and you kind of want to groan. Frankly, beneath the sudden and brief surge of panic, you're not at all surprised. It takes a special kind of guy to deserve such magnificently shitty luck in life, and between Karkat and your good self, you seem to have all basis of bad fortune covered.

You steady your hands on his shoulders and peer over his head to examine the situation, and in his frustration he lets you. Behind Gamzee there are two other clowns, both of whom look far more like oddly placed background characters in a cartoon, there only to make the scene seem far more threatening than it is. You decide it doesn't work. Their forgettable presence behind Gamzee is inconsequential, slouched in their shoes as mere afterthoughts, and you take a solemn moment to pity their irrelevance before turning your attention to your own worsening fate. 

Frowning, you bend down to inch a little closer to Karkat. “Yo, I thought you said you distracted them,” you say, keeping your eyes on Gamzee. While you feel like you've got him reasonably figured out, he seems like the unpredictable sort. The type of fucker that could catch you off guard in a moment of inattention, and hammer you to the ground with one giant troll fist. Karkat was stronger than he looks, and you have a sinking feeling that it'd be the same for Gamzee.

“Oh yes, go ahead and blame me,” Karkat hisses in a loud whisper just as Gamzee notices you both perhaps a little late. “This is clearly all my fault, because I am Karkat 'Harbinger of Bad Decisions' Vantas. Shall we just ignore everything I've done to help you up until this point?” He waves a hand and wiggles his fingers, which Gamzee seems to take as a greeting. “Whoosh, there it goes, like nothing every happened. Stay tuned for the next episode of The Bulge Chafing Adventures of Karkat and Dave, where Dave is hacked to death by a gaggle of clowns, of all things.” He turns his attention to Gamzee finally. “And what the fuck are you doing out of the horn pile?”

Gamzee rubs the back of his neck and grins lazily. “Bro, I was gettin' all cosy and shit all up in the horn hill when I up and realised that my best motherfuckin' palebro was gone. I was asleep for the most of it, you know how it is, but waking up as only one half of the cuddle puddle ain't all sunshine and tits, you get me?”

“You cuddle?”

“It wasn't an invitation for you follow me, fucknut!” Karkat exclaims, finally shrugging you off to flail in Gamzee's direction. “You've been sufficiently shooshed, fed and watered, to go the fuck back to the horn pile, make yourself comfortable, and have a pleasant fucking nap. I'm busy.” 

“Aw, I would an' all, but for some reason it escaped my noticing that the sacrifice has gone and made a motherfuckin' getaway,” Gamzee says, lolling a hand to gesture vaguely towards you. “Can't have him runnin' all free and shit, else we might lose him."

And suddenly he's looking at you. There's a kind of intense focus in his gaze that wasn't there before, as if suddenly he was able to focus on something without staring straight through it. It almost makes your breath catch hard in your throat. You like to think that you don't scare easily, not when you were brought up by your big bro and his puppet wife, but Gamzee has a look about him that can make any cool kid straighten up his slouch. Without the perpetual droop in his eyes or the lazy stoop to his stance, you get the oddest feeling of danger. 

“Hey,” he says, watching you carefully, “you got out.”

“No shit.” It's an automatic response, one that tumbles from your mouth before you can even begin to stop yourself. Karkat whips his head around to glare, eyes alight in warning as if urging you to repent, but you just shrug your shoulder. You're tired, you're hungry, and you just really can't be held responsible for the shit you say to the suddenly terrifying juggalo.

“Now ain't that just a motherfuckin' miracle.” He speaks slowly, drawing out each syllable with a punctuating growl, and you can't help but notice the way he seems to pull up his posture. Gamzee already has several inches on you with the way he usually holds himself, so when he straightens himself up, you have to stop yourself from taking a step back. A feeling of unease descends down in waves and you awkwardly defer to Karkat, shamelessly inviting him to take control of the situation. “Best bro,” Gamzee says before Karkat can attempt anything to remedy the pile of fuck you've both fallen into, “you wouldn't know how he all up and got his escape on, would you?”

The tension in the hallway is palpable. You think that Karkat's complexion pales at the unspoken threat hanging in the air, but with the way Gamzee is watching you as if waiting for any sudden movements, you can't be sure. He stands perfectly predatory with his monster teeth and his enormous height, and, well, you're kind of intimidated. You're not entirely sure how he could flip his character around so perfectly, but you don't allow yourself a moment to wonder as you quickly weigh up your options. 

“Escape?” Karkat repeats in a nervousness different to the one before. He's searching for an excuse, and you're torn between using him as a meat shield to make an undignified getaway, and barrelling forward to try and catch Gamzee off guard.

Instead, you swallow your nerves and sling an arm as casually as you can around Karkat's shoulder. “Basic Sacrificial Cult Ritual 101, dude,” you say flippantly, waving your free hand in a dismissive gesture. You choose to ignore the incredulous way Karkat looks up at you as if your touch disgusts him. “Everyone knows that you've gotta fatten up your sacrifice before your offer it up. If you put me on the slab with my tummy all a-rumblin', well, that's just rude, right? Not something that's gonna please your great and bountiful mirthful messiah, or whatever.”

Gamzee leers at you, narrowing his eyes. “Huh?”

He takes a step forward, and it's only your arm weighing heavy on Karkat's shoulder that stops you from backing up. You like to think yourself as a guy who isn't easily intimidated, but Gamzee has both height and horns, and could goat ram you to your death if you're not careful, so you allow yourself a little leeway. You stand your ground anyway, almost locking Karkat in position (and absently you note that he's started to expel air hard through his teeth in a drawn out shush.) 

“When it comes to sacrificial cults, I know my shit,” you continue, “and this skinny ass isn't going to please any kind of god. Karmander here was just taking me on a quick walk around the compound, see if we can find ourselves a cafeteria.” Gamzee continues to approach. “Hell, maybe even a vending machine. Stuff me with chips.”

It's bullshit. Something you've pulled straight from your ass when you've got nothing but your own hunger and the size of Gamzee's teeth on you mind. You know it's bullshit. Karkat knows it's bullshit. Hell, even the two background characters lurking nearby probably know it's bullshit, but you stick to your story with a decided stare and a straight face. Stoicism has gotten you out of a lot of bad situations before, so you can only hope it gives Gamzee reason to pause. Your stomach cinches at the thought, and you can only blame yourself. Beneath the lingering uncertainty, your hunger rears up at even the mention of food. Upside is it eases your mind away from the possibly homicidal giant before you.

As quickly as it came, it goes. The tension declines back into nothing save for what has already imbued itself into Karkat's stiff frame, and Gamzee visibly returns back to the character you were introduced to. “Now why didn't you just motherfuckin' say so?” he says, grinning at you. Karkat chokes out something could have either been a sigh of relief or a dry sob, and you can't fucking believe that your bullshit worked. Confused and uncertain with life right now, you watch as Gamzee thrusts his hands into his pockets and starts digging around. “Just so happens I got the perfect thing.”

Whatever it is, it's green. You really shouldn't have expected anything better, but your stomach lurches at the sight of the slop Gamzee just pulled from his huge pockets like it's no big deal. He balances it on his palm, holding it out to you with an almost delirious expectancy he seemed incapable of mere moments ago. It's lime, painfully reminiscent of the gelatinous gloop in the slime basin back in your cell, only packed away as best it can be in a foil type container. Shaped together like that, bundled in a case like it should be on display, it kind of looks like-

“Is that pie?” you say blankly, unsure how to proceed with this new development.

“It sure is, my friendly hornado,” Gamzee grins. “This is some fucking A-grade shit; prime sopor all wrapped up nice and ready to go. You get your paws on this and it's all fucking miracles up in this place. All you need is a motherfuckin' glass of orange Faygo to wash that bad boy down, and we're just golden.”

Broken from his shock, the screech Karkat makes is unholy. “Nobody is having any pie!”

Gamzee watches morosely as Karkat straight up slaps the pie straight from his hands, something you've realised to be a habit of his, and he blinks down at the mess as if he's not quite sure what just happened. You stand there in your confusion, watching the scene unfold and wondering if the pie slime actually edible. With fatigue and hunger weighing down your thought process, you can't really be certain as to what has happened in the past ten minutes, so you just stand, and you just watch.

“No, wait, you eat your pie,” Karkat amends, pointing at Gamzee, “and calm the fuck down. I don't want you sobering up outside of a controlled environment.” You and Gamzee both glance down at the ruined pie, but before you can point out the obvious flaw in Karkat's logic, he's pulling your arm. “We couldn't find anything, what a shame,” he says in a voice a little louder than usual, “I suppose I'll just take Dave back to his room where he'll definitely stay for his entire duration here.”

When you look back, Gamzee is sat on the floor and finger deep in the splattered pie. He offers you a lazy wave and a dismissive grin before return to whatever the fuck he's doing. You turn to Karkat, half disappointed that you won't be making a smooth getaway after all, but not entirely surprised. He's glaring ahead of him and worrying his lower lip with pointed teeth as he leads you back in a grudging back-peddle of your original route.

“Fuck,” he says finally and they are your sentiments exactly, because goddamn it, you're still hungry.

  
turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] 

TG: step right up ladies and gentlemen because im going to tell you the secret of how to lose weight instantly in just three quick easy steps   
TG: step one get abducted by aliens  
TG: step two sit there and starve as the aliens forget that you need food to survive  
TG: step three there is no step three because youre dead   
EB: are the aliens being mean to you, dave?  
TG: yes  
TG: yes they are  
TG: there is only so much food deprivation a man can take before he starts thinking about self cannibalism   
TG: i have a perky ass so that should last me a good few days  
TG: but my tremendous ego forbids me to stick a fork in perfection   
TG: so i find myself at an impasse   
TG: any suggestions?   
EB: i heard somewhere once that you can get through life without a big toe.  
TG: good good this is what i need  
TG: options  
TG: tell me more teacher  
EB: i'm pretty sure your boobs are redundant too, so that's always something to consider.  
TG: ok yes titties are gone what else?  
EB: i feel like you're leading me into a trap here dave.  
EB: short of cutting up your ass, i've got nothing but a penis joke.   
EB: but i'll keep that to myself until we're really desperate.   
TG: i think im like two days away from seriously considering all of the above but for now i will settle for staring dramatically at my phone   
TG: waiting for the battery to die  
TG: or waiting for death  
TG: whatever comes first  


turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] 

EB: you wanna play online scrabble?  
EB: dave?  
EB: did your phone actually die?  
EB: i'll play scrabble with jade then.  



	6. Your Situation Can Only Get So Bad Before A Narrative Switch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The theme of today's chapter is failure. The very same thing that keeps me warm at night.

Your name is Karkat Vantas, and you are a beacon of failure.

You've spent the majority of your life bumbling in hopeless mediocrity, trudging through the motions in the hopes that you can at least try to live a relatively normal, cull free life. When you're not busy being a useless piece of rectal sputum, you're actually pretty okay at some things. Sometimes, when the stars are aligned, you're even fairly positive that your world doesn't always revolve around complete and utter disappointment despite how much present circumstances are trying to dispute that. You try to remind yourself not to fall into an apoplexy of anger, you really do, but with Dave being led to what is probably going to be his ultimate doom, it's a decidedly failed endeavour.

Lots of things are failing today.

You allow yourself a torrid moment to consider the massive shit pile of a situation you've careened nook first into. Of _course_ Gamzee would just oh so happen to stumble upon you right after you finally account for both of your shameglobes and decide to drag Dave to freedom. It's exactly the kind of poetic bullshit that can only happen to you, so in hindsight you really shouldn't be surprised. You've never been the most fortunate of trolls, and taking charge of such a large undertaking to save the hide of some foreign, pink creature was always going to end up in tears.

The day to Dave's inevitable sacrifice is drawing closer, and the budding aneurysm tick tick ticking away in the back of your mind is quickly following suit. Dave himself seems wholly unconcerned about his his own impending decimation, so you find yourself desperately trying to make up for that by worrying enough for the both of you.

Worry often manifests itself as rage, and it's when Dave draws his wrist back to himself that you realise you've been digging your claws into his skin. He takes it like a trooper, like he apparently takes everything else in life, but the death of his of his rectangular communication device seems to have hit him hard. It's abrupt and unnervingly final as he watches the last dregs of life flicker away from the screen you so kindly broke. It happens a few sharp turns away from his cell when you're busy stewing in you own shortcomings, and you're alerted to the fact only by a short, displeased grunt. For you, always a dramatic creature, its demise hails bad fortune. It sucks away anything even resembling hope of success as you slog your way along the halls in a forced, awkward sort of silence, as if the last thread that connected him back to his shitty home and his shitty planet has finally been severed from him. You can't help but feel partly responsible.

You've never been good at wallowing in stifling silences, but you can't think of a single thing that will make the situation any better for the both of you. While you consider yourself to be one of the more empathetic trolls around, your temper and flare for rancorous ravings make it difficult to successfully comfort someone. You doubt he would appreciate the effort, but the sad silence is killing you, and clearing your throat obnoxiously loudly can only do so much before it starts to get weird.

“Why did you lie?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself. With the question hanging in the air, you stare at him expectantly, suddenly hyper aware that he had just single-handedly staved off a very bad situation. You've been trying to wean Gamzee off the sopor for a while now; it's a process that goes hand in hand with trying to drag the deranged dumbass away from the farcical cult, but it's an enterprise that comes with lethal side-effects. Sobriety brings out the feral in your palemate, a long-forgotten bloodlust of old, and when you're not busy yelling at him, it's actually pretty terrifying. You're reminded of how useless you were in facing him, and the thought angers you. You talk big, you talk loud, but when it matters, you're just as hopeless as a warm shit in the sun.

Dave stuffs his dead device into the waistband of his shorts, breaking you from your internal chastise. “What? You expected me to go all oh hey there tall, dark and delirious, your main man Karkle just all up and decided to spirit my fine ass away from the firing line, hope you're cool with that,” he says in a smooth monotone. “Give me some credit, I'm not about to sabotage my one shot at quitting this place.”

You're somehow disappointed at his reply. “That was stupid,” you say, curling your upper lip into a sneer. “If he realised that you were lying, then we'd have bigger problems than a little cult sacrifice.”

“He didn't realise,” Dave shrugs, and you wonder if he has ever been concerned about a single thing in his entire pathetic existence. “Though in case you didn't notice, I do actually need food. It's a great way to stay alive, I hear, and you seem to be all about keeping me alive.” He palms his stomach and his lips twitch into something that might actually be an emotion. You're not sure. It's hard to decipher his expressions with both his permanent subscription to needless stoicism and those absurd shades that serve no purpose other than to offer you a whole new brand of douche-baggery you're not already familiar with. 

“I had everything under control.” That's a lie. “You didn't have to do anything. In fact, everything you did was probably a detriment to what I was trying to achieve.”

“Right,” he says, unconvinced. “So the next time Mr. Homicidal back there is about ready to go all Guantanamo on the both of us, I'll leave you to it.”

He offers you a swift pat on the shoulder, and in all of your endless patience, you valiantly decide not to rise to his meaningless babble. As much as his general existence seems to strike every nerve within you in the wrong way, you find yourself oddly drawn to him. At a stretch, you might even admit to actually liking him. He's bizarre and frustrating in every sense of the meanings, but there's something inherently likeable about him. You're not sure if it's the novelty of him being an alien, or if it's you having bad taste, but you can't help but admire him. You have no love for his coping methods – not when you're panicking hard enough for the pair of you – but you find you can somewhat respect him for not overreacting as you so often do.

As you walk together, him trailing behind an arms length away, you find yourself glancing back. He looks ludicrous in one of the t-shirts you grew out of two sweeps ago, and in retrospect, you shouldn't have given him something that was too small even for you. It stretches against his biceps and chest in a way you decide offends you, and it bunches up around his midriff like he intended it to fall that way. Centred in his stomach is a peculiar dip, an indent that seems to be a trait among humankind if your binge watch of _The X-Files_ is any indication of their differing anatomy. You want to press it, see if it has any strange qualities that set your two species further apart, but with the way the air has settled awkwardly around you, you conclude that it's a bad time for inter-species exploration. (And isn't that a thought that catches you off guard.)

You can see the silhouette of his eyes behind his shades, and when you realise that he's looking at you, you snap your head back so fast that you feel and you hear a hard click in your neck. There's a heat pooling at your nape, one that's spreading up to your ears and is probably on its way to consume your entire face. You curse out loud to distract yourself and hopefully Dave too, but the damage is done. You're aware of him now, painfully so. You can feel his eyes on you, watching you, likely judging you. Possibly even blaming you. 

You try to ignore it.

When you arrive at his cell, there's a funky mixture of relief and disappointment starting to stew within you, but you set that aside to present him the door with a lame flourish of your arm. His steps falter a little, so slight that you almost miss it. It's out of character, a sad hiccup in his established overconfidence, and you're once more reminded of your inability to offer any kind of comfort.

“I'll be back soon,” you say robotically as he steps around you into his cell. It's not something you've had to assure him of before, not when your inexplicable daily visits are implied by the way you always shout yourself silly before leaving him without bothering to finish your sentence, but you hold on to the feeble hope that it helps in some way. Your attempt is stiff and intoned, so much that it comes out more like a question, and you almost groan at your struggle to act remotely appropriate given the situation.

Dave surprises you by offering a light quirk of his lips, almost a smile in the right light and if you tilt your head at precisely the right angle. “Thanks, Karton,” he says, sticking up his thumb in what you assume to be a friendly human gesture. You immediately and automatically bristle at the millionth mispronunciation of your name, but you can't help the shear flush that slides up onto your face without your express written consent. Spluttering, you try not to be endeared as fuck. You fail at that too.

Steeling yourself, you fling your finger into an accusing point, and your voice unconsciously dips a little higher in volume. “Don't do anything that could fuck this up any further,” you exclaim, flustered. You copy his gesture as an afterthought, turning up your thumb. Somehow, you make it seem more like an obscenity than a friendly salute. “Stay put and I'll sort everything out, got it?”

It might be a laugh, you're unsure, but he definitely puffs out a shot of air from his nose as he retreats further into his cell. Immediately, he drops down to the floor in a sad and painful looking bellyflop. You hesitate for a moment, wondering if you should join him, maybe offer him an encouraging pap on the back and a swift “You wanna talk about it?” Ultimately, however, you elect not to, and you stomp the thought out of your head as you lock him away.

You decamp off into the night.

The situation boils like a bad smell in a small room, and it follows you as you trudge along searching for a single ray of hope or whatever can pass for it in the conglomerate of metaphorical shit you're wading through. It takes a second. It takes several seconds, in fact. It takes so many seconds that you're beginning to wonder if there's actually any kind of bright side lurking around the corner. You suppose that you can count Dave's present survival as one. He may already be one foot in the grave, soon to bask in the fucked up glory of whatever resembles a clown god, but at least for now he's still breathing. The idea should comfort you. After all you've put yourself through to keep him alive, you can always fall back on his survival as a win, but it does little to make you feel better. No matter what you do, you're convinced that you can't feasibly do anything to really help him. Not alone, at least, and you audibly groan at what it's come to. Your will to continue with all this is steadily slipping away, but you desperately cling to it as you come to a decision. After all, where there's a will, there's a way, and where there's a way, there is Terezi Pyrope. 

You already feel the regret seeping into your skin as you make your way to her hive. Terezi is exactly the kind of friend you never asked for, never wanted, and never appreciated, but now you've come to understand that she's pretty much your only hope for successfully pulling Dave out of his impending clown doom. You don't have many friends, not when half of your life is spent hiding your mutant status and overcompensating for your height with your huge voice, but somewhere along the way she fell into your circle, made herself at home and never politely left to let you stew in your petulant and systematic rage. She's clever, she's sly, and she's as flaky as they come, but there's little else you can do but put Dave's life in her capable and sometimes sticky hands. 

When you arrive, in the place of a hello you're greeting by a loud crackle and a snap of what sounds like a whip. The regret starts to bubble over. If you had any other choice, any other friend that was capable of what Terezi could do, you'd turn and hightail it out of there, sparing her a glance only so you can swear in her general direction. Over her shrill laughter and her palpable excitement, you debate the merits of sneaking out before it's too late, but ultimately you decide that Dave's shitty little life is more important than your reluctance to subject yourself to Terezi and her teasing.

So you hate yourself. That's something you've long established, but it's a feeling that resurges when you take a step forward and bark out what's probably a greeting if taken in the right context. She pays you no mind at first, too busy lording herself over a series of plush creatures that are arranged together in a judiciary manner. Two of them are facing backwards, and whether that's because of whatever plot she's following, or a genuine oversight on her part, you're unsure, but it bothers you more than it should.

“Karkat,” she croons as you approach the jury as if they are about to decide your fate. She whirls around to point her cane at you, but it slips from her fingers and goes flying across the room. “Long time no see.”

You snort and turn the toys forward, trying to rehearse your plea for help in your head. All you need to do is ask without making yourself sound too desperate. You're really feeling the regret now. It's seeping around you like the slime of a recuperacoon, and you hate every second of it. Already she looks smug, curling her lips into a pointed smile and tapping the side of her glasses as if she's waiting for the right dramatic moment to adjust them. She knows, you tell yourself, despite her having no conceivable way of knowing.

“What in the name of fuck are you even doing?” you ask to prolong the inevitable. The toys are all staring at you, coming to their verdict, and Terezi tries to turn to vaguely face them. Instead, she's looking to the left of them, in the general direction of where her cane had crashed. 

“I'm not at liberty to say,” she says flippantly, gesturing towards a makeshift podium where a lone toy sits. “My client takes this very seriously.”

It's a red toy with buttons for eyes, and it stares sadly towards the jury of its peers. “Your client is a stuffed dragon.”

“Exactly.” Her teeth are glinting in the dimness of the room as she finally pushes her glasses up. “We're in the middle of very high-profile and very _confidential_ session, Karkat. Your very presence here could put my client at a serious disadvantage, unless of course that was your intention.” She turns towards you accusingly, and lowers the frames of her glasses so you can see her obnoxiously red eyes. “That begs the question: Where were _you_ on this day last sweep?”

By her feet there's a crude chalk outline of her own body, punctuated by a little cone that has the number one awkwardly scrawled on it. It's not centred and half of it runs off the edge, looking more like the bad scribbles of a young grub. “I don't have the time to indulge you or your shitty, asinine roleplaying games, Terezi, this is a matter of life or death!” you snap, glaring pointedly at her client because you can't bring yourself to look at her when asking for help. “Gamzee and his crew of ludicrous louts have taken it upon themselves to delve deep into the fucking bowls of space, and pluck some bizarre creature from a shitty dilapidated planet, and I don't know what to do anymore! I don't want the death of some human thing to be on my conscience for the rest of the foreseeable future. I need help.”

“A human?” she hums, clearly not sensing the urgency. “Never heard of them. Sounds tasty.” She flings around and points at her stuffed client, sneering her upper lip before motioning that she's watching it. Authority assured, she turns back to you and cocks a sharp brow. “What's really surprising is that you're actually asking for my help here. What's up with that, fearless leader?”

You bristle, because that's the only thing you can do. “If you'd unplug your ears and clear the stupidity from your head for a single second, then maybe you'd come to understand that I'm trying to save this tasty human from the quite fucking inconvenient blood sacrifice Gamzee and his buffoons are planning, and I don't know if you've noticed, but that's a bit of a task to take up all by myself. So yes, I am asking for you help. _Very reluctantly so_ , thank you very much. In fact, I'm asking you so reluctantly that I can actually feel parts of me die the longer I go on, so are you going to help, or not?”

“Just give me a swift second to translate that monologue into the nice and simple quest line it's supposed to be. We can't all tune into the babble you come out with all the time,” she says, whirling her body quickly around to lick the side of her client's head. She pulls away and narrows her eyes, before turning to grin at you. “Let me get this straight so I can see the whole picture here. You want to storm the gate of Gamzee's clown kingdom, kick down the dungeon doors and rescue this human princess?” Her entire figure brightens, and she dramatically throws her hands on her hips. The gesture is so flamboyant, that in the process she knocks her client of its perch. “I'm in.”

“You most certainly are _not_ in!” you snap. “I'm just here because you're the only one of my friends, if you can even call us that, that has any experience in taking suspect things out of suspect places, and it just so happens that your skills are kind of, sort of necessary in saving the human. Under no circumstances am I ever going to let you anywhere near the clown kingdom, not when I'm already responsible for one miserable life. I don't need to look after you at the same time. I can save Dave on my own, and I just need you to...confer?”

It tastes like a gigantic pile of lie and Terezi sees right through you. “Keep your nubs on, Karkles,” she snickers, rubbing her grubby little hands together. “I'm not about to get in between you and your flush crush. I'm just in this for the drama.”

You shriek something of a denial, but it's so indecipherable that you're not even entirely sure what you said. For you, personal quadrants have always been a bit of a sore spot, save for your one success at having a real life moirail, and even the suggestion of developing yet another pointless flush crush sends every trigger into overdrive. Sweeps of trying to touch bulges with Terezi had no pay off due to your own inability with figuring out which quad went where, and it's something you've always resented. Your black crush turned out to be a flush crush, which turned out to be indigestion, and you're not about to repeat that experience with an alien of all things. A flush crush. On _Dave_. The very thought muddies your face in an ugly blush and cinches your stomach. 

She's staring at you blankly as your incoherent rant comes to an end. Or rather, she's glancing in your general direction because she can't place your exact location. “You done?”

“It's _not_ a flush crush,” you squawk, pointing at her accusingly. “I'm simply concerned, as any other respectable creature would be when faced with the burden of having to protect some pink human from a probably inevitable sacrifice. You don't know anything!"

“You've been talking non-stop about saving this guy since you graced me with your presence,” she shrugs, pulling a brown crayon from the box tucked in the back of her pants. She licks the nib, pulls a face, and takes out another one. “You're a walking cliché, it's great. I love watching you squirm. Hearing you squirm. You get it.”

Out of all your friends, Terezi probably knows you the third best, the first and second places being taken by Kanaya and Gamzee respectively, so you know that when she accuses you of a certain type of behaviour, it's probably true. Even so, you can't imagine that the universe would be so cruel as to make you have any kind of quadrant feelings for an insufferably smooth alien like Dave Strider. When you fall in flush, you fall fast and hard, and there's nothing to stop your fall but a nice slap in the face when it all inevitably falls apart. You just don't have the time to go ahead and project some caricature of a flush crush on some weird looking human who probably won't understand the concept even if you sit down and explain it to him. 

“How does a flush crush even work with aliens?” Terezi asks. “Does he even look anything like a troll? Do you have an alien fetish? Karkat, _do you have an alien fetish?_ ”

“I don't think the discussion of whether I do or do not have a flush crush on some alien is pertinent to anything I'm trying to achieve right now, so we're going to take this topic, fold it up in a neat pile, and push it right to the back of the cupboard where we'll never discuss it ever again, so just shut up about everything. It's not like that at all, and it'll never be like that because he's just some shitty alien from some equally shitty planet with some stupid shades and stupid eyes and I don't have a flush crush on him, because that wouldn't make even a modicum of sense.”

“Time to calm down,” she says derisively, awkwardly rubbing your shoulder when she missed the landing to ruffle your hair. 

“Don't pap me! It's not your responsibility to pap me!”

She cackles and slaps your shoulder hard before finally pulling out a sheet of paper from the outright ass end of nowhere. With a hard tug, she drags you down to the floor and presents a red crayon. “We'll absolutely be talking about this later,” she says, nodding to herself as she presses the crayon to paper, “but right now, all we need is a plan.”

As she drags a candy red line too far off the page, you close your eyes and will the ground to suck you up. You knew you would regret this.

  
cardioGeneticist [CG] began trolling ectoBiologist [EB] 

CG: ARE YOU THE HUMAN WHO IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE WELFARE OF DAVE STRIDER?   
EB: i guess? i mean, rose is probably the closest to being remotely responsible for anything relating to the strider clan, but i can give it a good go.  
EB: wait, who is this?  
CG: THAT DOESN'T MATTER RIGHT NOW. WHAT MATTERS IS THAT I'VE GOT DAVE AND I NEED TO KNOW HOW TO MAKE HIS RECTANGULAR COMMUNICATION DEVICE COME BACK TO LIFE.  
CG: IF YOU'RE RESPONSIBILE FOR HIS WELFARE THEN TELL ME HOW TO FIX THIS BUCKET OF FUCK BECAUSE HE'S BEEN LYING ON HIS STOMACH FOR A WHILE NOW AND I THINK HE MIGHT BE DEAD.  
CG: DO HUMANS SURVIVE ON THESE DEVICES? BECAUSE THAT'S A STUPID TRAIT TO HAVE.  
EG: i take it you're the alien that dave's been talking about?  
CG: HE TALKS ABOUT ME?  
CG: I MEAN, YES. I SUPPOSE I AM.   
CG: AND SOMEHOW THIS SHITTY UNIVERSE DECIDED THAT *I'M* THE ONE WHO'S GOING TO KEEP HIS BUTT SAFE AND SOUND WHILE IN THE MIDST OF SOME RIDICULOUS CLOWN SACRIFICIAL CULT GATHERING, SO IF YOU COULD JUST TELL ME WHAT I WANT TO KNOW, I'LL BE ON MY MERRY WAY AND LEAVE YOU TO YOUR REGULAR CHICKEN SACRIFICE, OR WHATEVER ELSE YOU HUMANS DO IN YOUR SPARE TIME.  
EG: you sound more like a troll than anything really.  
CG: YES, THAT'S WHAT I'VE BEEN TRYING TO TELL YOU. WILL YOU PULL YOUR THUMB OUT AND TELL ME HOW TO FIX THIS DEVICE ALREADY, BECAUSE I'VE LEFT DAVE ON HIS OWN IN THE COMPOUND AND I'M NOT SURE WHEN THEY'RE COMING TO TAKE HIS INSIDES AND PUT THEM ON THE OUTSIDE. UNLESS YOU ACTUALLY *WANT* THAT TO HAPPEN TO YOUR CHARGE, YOU FUCKING FIEND.  
EB: is this dirk?   
EB: this is dirk isn't it. did dave get you to do this? is this revenge for something i can't remember doing, but probably deserve?   
CG: DIRK? WHAT THE FUCK IS A DIRK? IT SOUNDS SEXUAL.  
EB: well I guess so. dirk is a pretty sexual being.  
CG: YOU DISGUST ME.  



	7. In Which Absolutely Nothing Happens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you believe that I have this entire story already planned out? I'm just historically bad at remembering that this fic is a thing I need to actually write if I wanna get it finished.

The world has flipped back to where it should be and you're once again Dave Strider.

You haven't got a particularly good memory, but you can say with absolute certainty that there's still an open bottle of apple juice sat on your desk. It's pressed between the computer tower and some cider bottles you've been collecting pennies in, standing proud atop an old _Game Bro_ issue that's served as head coaster for many a beverage. You despair to think of what's become of it now. Cloudy and sour, it's probably clinging to the last dregs of life, trying to feebly turn itself around by becoming a summer swimming centre for wayward flies and creatures of a similar ilk. The fermented smell has probably risen by now, its stench weaving through your room to fester between the threads of your bedsheets and the fabric of your strewn about clothes.

When you get home, _if_ you get home, you'll doubtlessly forget about the fate of your beloved apple juice. You're going to be sat at your computer one summer eve, an innocent young man with big dreams and a bigger heart, so carefree as you draw pixelated bullshit with the wrong hand, and eventually you're going to get thirsty. You'll see that bottle perched upon its magazine steed and in your ironic, parched elation, you'll rejoice, pleased that you had the foresight to provide future you with some sick refreshment as you shit out masterpiece after masterpiece. Then, when you pull the saccharine nectar to your unassuming, blameless lips, expecting the sweet, sweet aroma of processed apples to ensconce you in their motherly embrace, all you'll get is that bitter twang of broken dreams and disappointment. You can already taste the betrayal.

Oh wait, no, you can't taste a fucking thing because you haven't eaten in almost a week

You're not sure when Karkat left you to wallow in isolation, but you haven't bothered to move since. Any willpower you could have bolstered to do something even remotely productive has already abandoned you like a papa heading out to buy some cigarettes for the next ten years or so. You're at a loss of what to do. It's unlike you to brood, you like to think, not when there's an ill beat and a rhyme to be dropped for just about any outlandish situation you manage to fall ass over tits into, but somehow – for the first time in a longass time – your words are failing you. Talking shit to fill the silence hasn't help, not when your Faygo supplies are running low and your stomach is singing baritone against the stone you're flopped on. You want Karkat to come back, if only to have someone to talk to and help keep your mind off the inevitable treachery of that apple juice back home.

If you had to put a time on it, you'd say he's been gone around a day and a half – or at least the alien equivalent. For the most part, you've been lying face first on the floor, having nothing better to do other than count the murder-clowns dancing along the carapace of the recuperacoon. (You think that's what it's called, anyway, but there's not a chance in high heaven that you're going to be recuperating in that cocoon anytime soon.) It's a grand old time, fun for all the family, and you'll definitely recommend it to any other super cool sap casually awaiting his imminent death by Bobo the fucking Clown, but it's a pastime that loses its lustre after the first few 'one mad rampaging juggalo of death, two mad rampaging juggalos of death, three mad blah blah blah's'.

You wonder what Karkat's doing. He's been gone longer than usual and the low groaning of the surrounding compound in place of his boorish voice is palpable. You've gotten used to the idea of him blustering in, half-cocked and ready to squawk something semi-coherent in your general direction. It's a trait that has become surprisingly endearing – the same kind of endearing as a yapping young chihuahua scratching at your door at three in the morning because holy shit Dave, we're out of kibble and it's all your fucking fault. A part of you wants to punt the chihuahua straight down the stairs, but a bigger part of you opens the door, scoops the yelping mutt up and shooshes it until it's a rumbling ball of fluff in the corner of your bed.

Because of his regular visits and the aforementioned yapping, you've become reasonably attuned to the sound of his voice, so when you hear him stalking up the corridor, you can't help but lift your head. It's as if he's been summoned by even the thought of comparing him to a dog, and you half-expect him to march on in and order you to take it back in a flurry of convoluted shouts and gestures. You're oddly comforted by the idea. Heaving out a sigh, you push yourself off the ground and wait as he begins an unnecessarily long struggle with the bolts on the door.

It blows open with a swift kick, and you're presented with perhaps the strangest looking fuck in the entirety of this clown compound.

Whoever she is, she's shrill. Her voices carries almost as well as Karkat's, though in a tone that drenched in an impish scorn as she announces herself with a melodramatic cackle. One hand clutches a walking cane, while the other theatrically presses against her bright red glasses in a pose that's clearly meant to either impress or intimidate you. It does neither.

She might be pretty, but it's hard to tell with the sheer amount of paint splurged all over her face and neck. It's as if she had been bestowed with the tub of greasepaint, decided it wasn't nearly enough, and then showered in the shit. Unlike Gamzee, Karkat, and the brief background characters you encountered two chapters ago, this strange girl takes being a clown that one unneeded step further. It's lipstick, you think, or could be just another colour of paint, but whatever she used to turn the contour of her cheeks and her lips that shade of red is a force to be reckoned with. It stretches across her face in a Chelsea grin, complimented by her own wide smile and the fangs that are even sharper than Karkat's.

In keeping with her exaggerated look, her outfit is somehow oscillating between the greatest and worst ensemble you've ever had the pleasure of viewing. It's got to be deliberate, you conclude as you take in the pants that stiffly stretch out too far away from her body, held up by spotted suspenders and flowery appliqués. Her bow tie, striped, turquoise and much too big, is an actual criminal offence, but what really brings the whole look together is the incredible cone adorned with no less than three poof balls sat between her horns.

It's the perfect array of irony all wrapped up in a clearly psychotic alien, and you're almost in awe.

“Honk honk, motherfucker,” she says.

She's a little taller than Karkat, and seems to have the inexplicable ability to lord it over him without bothering to acknowledge it as she uses his shoulder to guide her into the room. Karkat bristles beside her, mercifully not wearing his own clown getup, but looking just about ready to end it all as if he was as she pushes past him to approach you.

“Terezi Pyrope,” she introduces. She holds out her hand for you to shake, but the second you touch palms, she drags you closer with surprising strength and licks an obnoxious stripe up your painted cheek. “Yes,” she decides, running her tongue along her lips and flashing her teeth, “you and I are going to get along well.”

Okay. So that catches you off guard. While your initial reaction is to step the fuck away from this clearly deranged troll that up and appeared in your personal bubble like she's the hot shit, you instead find yourself too astonished to even move. It's probably the dull feeling hunger has given you, or maybe it's genuine shock, but you almost reciprocate her greeting in an awkward attempt to acclimatise to the culture. You're not sure if you're actually supposed to lick her back, but you're saved from any possible faux pas when Karkat flings himself between the two of you and moves to drag you a safe distance away.

“This might seem like a wild concept to you, but licking things immediately after meeting them is fucking impolite,” he snaps, flapping a hand at her and bearing his teeth as he positions himself in front of you like a tiny meat shield. He looks over his shoulder at you, and you can see the regret and frustration seeped into his expression. “Terezi's only here to help facilitate your escape from the pantheon of fuckwits outside. For some reason, she was so insistent in taking part in this whole farce that with absolutely no prompting from me she actually came dressed for the occasion.”

“Pretty cool, right?” Terezi says to you, grinning widely and gesturing down herself. “I'm gonna fit right in with these losers.”

“Just as long as you know who's in charge here,” Karkat sneers, giving her a judgemental once over. “I've got enough to worry about without you trying to usurp my role in all of this.”

“Yeah, I really don't care about all that,” she shrugs, hooking her thumbs in her suspenders and almost hitting him with her cane in the process. “I told you before that I'm just here for the fun of it. What do I care about being the leader.” She nods towards you, her smirk still wide and especially unnerving with the excessive make-up. “I don't care if this asshole lives or dies so long as I get some laughs out of it.”

“Then what's the point in you being here?!”

“Then again, he tastes so good underneath that stuff on his face, it'd be a waste to let Gamzee's squad rip him open and juggle with his squishy bits,” she continues, deftly ignoring Karkat as if it were a professional sport. “Hey, Dave what does it look like? Your blood.” She regards you with all the intensity of a predator, even though she's looking at your chest instead of your face, and you find a brief moment to wonder if everyone on this planet is actually batshit. “Let me taste it.”

“Tastes as good as it looks,” you say automatically above Karkat's inevitable squawk. “I would take the time to describe it to you, but that just takes away the little joys and wonders of experiencing it for yourself. This shit's on the same level as a Baroque painting hanging all magnificent on the wall of the Louvre, or grandma looking upon her final sunset before succumbing to that age ol' murderer Father Time, but not before she sheds a single tear at that beautiful sight gently falling behind the horizon. Ain't it great to be in perfect possession of all of your senses?”

“It sure is,” she laughs, “just like it's great to have the freedom to stroll on out of here without getting culled by a rodeo of clowns, am I right?”

“You sure are.”

You fist bump the crazy girl.

“Are you two quite done?” Karkat jeers, alternating his glare between the two of you as if he can't decide who to be mad at. “If you don't mind, I'd like to maybe _not_ stand around here chatting for the rest of the foreseeable future. Every second you two waste trying to sniff each other out is just another second leading up to all three of us getting our joint asses handed to us by a gaggle of cultist clowns, and I don't know about you, but that's something I'd really like to avoid.”

“My horoscope was pretty clear about avoiding clowns today,” you say, patting Karkat's shoulder before he can shout himself into popping a blood vessel. “I take it there's some big plan that's gonna wow me into writing this into my memoirs, right?

“It's simple,” Terezi says before Karkat can answer you. “While our illustrious leader boldly escorts you from the depths of this hilarious hell hole you've been nestled in, I'm going to be on distraction duty. From what I understand, it's basically exactly the same plan as last time, only I'm here to make sure it actually goes right.” Regardless of Karkat still trying to be your meat shield, she approaches and drapes herself on your shoulder. It's partly to be obnoxious, partly to assure herself that it's your face she's talking to. “Between you and me, I wanted to head on in with my cane a-blazing and strike the fear of the law into their pump biscuits, kick their collective clown asses and sweep you off your tasty human feet, but Karkat decided that he wanted to be _subtle_.”

You automatically snort at the notion. “Subtle,” you repeat. “Yeah, and I'm the runner-up for Lil' Miss Texas two years running.”

“Right?”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean, you pair of fucking twits?”

“Don't get me wrong,” you say, jostling Karkat's shoulder, “I'm all up for some hardcore liberation shenanigans. I've got beef with a bottle of AJ sitting pretty back home, and I'd rather have my guts all wrapped up where they belong when I confront the treacherous fuck. Only, the last time the clown crew were distracted, we ended up having a Mexican showdown with Mr. Sunshine and the Garbage Gang. What makes you so sure that doing literally exactly the same thing will work?”

Terezi brightens and claps you hard on the back. “You didn't have me last time,” she announces, flinging her arm out and gesturing at nothing as if she wants you to focus on the bigger picture. “Imagine this, cool kid. A theatrical Jubilant Juggalo Murder Hive Mystery, good for one night and one night only. Prosecutor Pyrope is taking justice into her own hands and has gone undercover deep into the bowls of cult clown-kind with nothing but her lawful integrity and her wits to keep her afloat.” She pulls her arm back and makes a fist by her chest, facing dramatically off into the distance. “Amidst the bouquet of madness around her, she is betrayed by the system and found cold and lifeless with a blade savagely plunged into her chest. It's the only clue lying around. Did she take her own life in a moment of insanity, or is there murder afoot? There's only one troll for the job, but she's too busy being dead to help out, so the clowns themselves must figure out this mystery before they're faced with a similar fate.

“But then,” she continues, her voice rising along with her excitement, “plot twist! Prosecutor Pyrope was alive the entire time! 'Can you describe the criminal?' the clowns will ask her desperately, ready to put this whole grotesque situation behind them and make the crook face justice. And Prosecutor Pyrope will turn her back, remove her glasses with a dramatic flourish and say, 'No.' Because she's blind as fuck.”

It's the best idea you've ever heard.

“That's the best idea I've ever heard.”

“I wouldn't go that far,” Karkat says, making a point to roll his eyes at her as if she could actually see him, “but it's ridiculous enough to that it might actually work. Fuck knows that they're stupid enough to fall for it.” He assesses Terezi's outfit for a moment, taking in every little detail like each part offends him. “Just make sure they don't figure out that you're not actually defective enough to be apart of their band of merry mummers, because we're dealing with highbloods. You know how they fucking get when some brainless non-believer encroaches in on their sanctified fuck of land.”

You don't have a clue what he means, but Terezi's expression sobers just a fraction and she nods. “Relax, it's not like I'm going to run in there blindly and tell them all exactly what I think of their dumb religion,” she says. “If any of them asks, I'll just tell them I converted. Isn't that basically what you did?”

“It doesn't work like that,” Karkat seethes, packing his arms over his chest to assert himself as the superior. “They don't just let any old caste into their super special club for mirthful morons. In fact, I'm relatively certain that Gamzee broke some ridiculous unspoken clown rule when I requested him to bring me into the fold, an act that makes me ask myself why I do the things I do for those I hate, because as far as I know, I'm the only non-purple fuck in this entire compound.”

“And I'll be the other,” she shrugs.

Karkat blows out a frustrated puff of air through his teeth and shakes his head. “Do you even realise the position you're putting yourself in? Your caste is common knowledge, so unless you manage to extract a grand gesture proving your faith to this joke of a cult straight out of your wastechute, you'd better avoid anyone who might recognise you.”

Terezi simply laughs. “Isn't it adorable when he's worried?” she asks you, obnoxiously brushing him off as if his entire existence were an overreaction. With the way her lips purse together around her smile, you get the weirdest feeling that she's not completely disregarding his warnings.

“Cute as a button,” you say, trying to hit that perfect note of irony in your reply, but falling short and surprising yourself at how much you mean it. Beside you, Karkat lets out a strangled sound that's a cross between a cat falling off a wall and a kid stubbing his toe against the leg of his bunk bed for the first time. For now, you ignore him. The concept of castes, highbloods, and whatever other troll terminology they managed to discuss is completely lost on you, and you're low-key getting tied of being kept out of the loop. “You're like that one teacher in school who cleans the whiteboard before you've even copied down the first sentence. Alright kids, let's learn all about the troll people today, whoops, there it goes, hope you managed to copy that entire paragraph in the two seconds I left it up there before wiping it to oblivion, because that's gonna be on the midterm. Good fucking luck with that, teach out.”

“We don't have the time to explain the complexities of our social system to you right now, Dave,” is the predictable response, but Karkat being Karkat, he proceeds to explain it anyway. “It's not that difficult, even a wiggler could probably understand. Just like most planets, we have a stupid hierarchy system that shits all over the lower class and puts the highbloods on pedestals they don't deserve. If you're the unfortunate fuck stuck at the lowest stratum in society, then you double up as cull fodder for the rest of the world, whereas Gamzee and his highblood gang of purple lunatics all get the golden treatment just for being hatched with the highest blood caste a land dweller can have.”

You don't know if you want to laugh or offer your condolences. “So you're telling me that Gamzee – you know, that dude who is high as a fucking kite that got lost in the stratosphere on a windy day and is now floating its helium ass straight to Jupiter, the guy who looks like he could actually step on and kill me if he just listed his leg a little higher than the stone cold stoner shuffle he's got going on – you're telling me that guy is actually considered to be nobility on this planet?”

Terezi shrugs. “Is that weird?”

“I don't know if that's a real question.”

“Well, you don't get to judge our shitty social system,” Karkat continues. “In fact, you don't get to judge fucking anything, because we're wasting time with all of your shitty judgements.”

“Yeah, Dave, stop wasting time.”

Helplessly, you lift your arms in something resembling an attempt of a shrug. “I'll reserve my shitty judgement for when my ass is safe and sound in a place that isn't overrun by clowns that are unironically perched at the peak of the pecking order.” You glance at Terezi grinning at you both with her disproportionate amount of make-up and her hooped clown pants. “Though when that happens, I hope you're both prepared for some extreme shitty judging. I'm donning my black robe and brandishing the gavel, and then I'm going to descend upon your entire hierarchy with such prejudice that you'll get whiplash. I'll swoop in like a majestic black bird screaming 'shame' in the early hours of the morning when you're not ready for guests, because who holds court on a Sunday anyway? Shit's gonna get real Judge Judy up in this joint. It's gonna be lit as fuck."

“If it'll shut you up, fine, you can have your bizarre Judge Judy judgement party, whatever the fuck that's supposed to be,” Karkat sighs, unable to do anything but resign himself to your bullshit, “but for now, is it really too much to ask you to drop the topic until after we've gotten you out of here?” He starts backing towards the door, watching you and Terezi as if you were both about to team up and launch an all-out attack on his self-esteem. “There are plenty of books on castes that you can read once we some how successfully shift your pasty ass from the lair of the maniacal clown cultists to my hive, okay?"

“Sounds thrilling.”

Terezi cackles and takes this as an opportunity to fling an arm around both of your necks. She drags you both close into an uncomfortable team side-hug and grins in the general direction of the door. “Just out this door is an entire army of clowns just ready to feast upon your tasty human flesh, and that's all that lies between you and freedom. The time for talking is done, boys,” she declares, squishing you and Karkat closer until you're both cheek to cheek with her. “We're doing this.”

“Yes,” you say back, unable to resist, “we're making this happen.” 

  
tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG]

TT: Last night John, Dirk, Roxy and I all got pestered by the same enraged character demanding to know if we are 'the humans' in charge of you and your general well-being.  
TT: Putting aside my unease at being contacted by a person I'm almost certain had a cerebral aneurysm no less than four times during our conversation, I suppose I must congratulate you on finally making a friend outside of John, Jade and your actual siblings that is showing what appears to be genuine concern for you and whatever it is you're getting up to in Canada.  
TT: Though I must admit, I would rather hear from you than some irate stranger that seems to have offended himself into delivering a rather impassioned harangue before I could even think of antagonising him myself.  
TT: You make some interesting friends when not supervised.  
TT: Talk to me as soon as you charge your phone.

tentacleTherapist [TT] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]


End file.
